


The Sound of Firebrands and Icebreakers

by Hyela



Series: A Multitude of Sounds [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Depression, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Multi, OCD, Queer Themes, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:58:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Hyela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of Drabbles and Ficlets about the characters' impressions of each other.<br/>Mostly instrospective</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyday is Exactly the Same (Grantaire)

**Author's Note:**

> -Each title is from a song or a movie/book title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and what he hates the most about being depressed.

There was a time when Grantaire thought that the worst thing about being depressed was the low self-esteem and the violent bouts of melancholia. Now, he knew that what could really be a killer was the lingering indifference to his condition and the poignant, persisting boredom. When you were depressed, everything lost its colour, its taste, its smell. Everything was in dull shades of gray. Everything looked and sound uninteresting. It was all the same to him.

 

At least, the sadness could be painted or drank away. The heavy, disarming feeling of being mediocre, a buffoon and a loon, could be petted and subdued, or could at least make him feel alive. The routine, though, the routine, now that was a good argument for suicide. Not that Grantaire wanted to end his life, but he thought he did not have much of one anyway. He spent most of his time daubing, searching alcohol and playing dominoes with Joly and Bossuet.

 

Nobody understood why the highlight of his week was when Enjolras deign looking at him, deign to stop ignoring his throw away comments to start a semblance of a debate. Enjolras, in these moments, his burning passion directed at Grantaire, was warming the cold numbness of Grantaire’s mind away. Enjolras could be so wrong about a number of things, but it felt so right to hear him out. To hear him claim and shout.

 

Unfortunately, Enjolras remained an untouchable ideal, much like all of the ideals he was holding himself. He was another part of the routine, albeit the brightest, most colourful part of it, and he couldn’t change a thing to anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title come from the song "Everyday is Exactly the Same" by Nine Inch Nails.


	2. My Neighbor Bahorel (Feuilly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Feuilly gets attached to his blabbermouth of a neighbor.

Sometimes, Feuilly liked to go outside on the balcony of his apartment to read and get some air. These days though, there was not much reading, because Feuilly’s new neighbour kept getting outside to start conversations with him. His name was André Bahorel and he looked roughly the same age as Feuilly, despite his harsh traits, his tall stature and broad arms. He could talk about absolutely everything: the weather, the idiots he had to yell at in the traffic, what he loved to eat on a Monday night, how he was not a fan of Freud’s theories and why Ghostbusters was one of the best comedies ever made. The man seemed to have no inhibition at all. He treated Feuilly like an old friend.

Feuilly had always been a solitary man. If he was to be honest with himself, there was no one whom he consider his friend. He was cordial and friendly to most of his acquaintances, but he did not hang out with anyone in particular. He did not give out details about his personal life, nor did he talk about deep subject matters. He was walled up in his loneliness, thinking he had much better to do than maintaining relationships with people whom he was not sure to like in the end.

He liked Bahorel. Bahorel was not a complex person, but he was obviously a good observer. He always seemed to know what to say, what to talk about. He knew when to let Feuilly quipped in something, and when the man had nothing to answer to his rambling. He never took Feuilly’s direct and brusque speech pattern personally and laughed it out when Feuilly got a little impatient, going back inside to give him space.

One evening, Bahorel did not go outside when Feuilly did. Feuilly instantly got worried. He knew that it was irrational, because sometimes people simply did not have the time, but it seemed improbable to him that his neighbour would not come and say why he couldn’t talk that day. Mechanically, Feuilly got up and went outside of his apartment. He posed himself in front of Bahorel’s door and, after a moment of hesitation, he knocked.

There was no answer, so Feuilly knocked again. He kept knocking, getting more frantic until he heard someone groaning and walking heavily to the door.

“Who the fuck is this?” Bahorel grumbled on the other side, and after probably looking through the peephole, he opened the door. The second he saw Feuilly, a big grin illuminated his face. As for Feuilly, he startled when he saw his neighbour: he had a split lip and a black eye.

“What the hell happened to you?” Feuilly exclaimed.

“Want to come in and let me tell you whose butt I kicked?”

Feuilly stared at Bahorel’s black eye and wet his lips. He felt the urge to admit his ridiculous feelings to Bahorel.

“Yes,” he said. “I want to come in and hear your story. I was... I know it will sound weird and stupid, but I was worried when you did not come out.”

“I fell asleep,” Bahorel said.

“I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Hey, no man,” Bahorel protested. “You want to knock at my door, you knock at my door. I love talking to you!”

Feuilly smiled. “And I love listening to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the movie "My Neighbor Totoro" by Hayao Miyazaki and the Studio Ghibli.


	3. Pretty Woman (Bahorel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barohel is attracted to a laughing woman.

People often said that Bahorel was a crass person: he swore a lot, he was loud and he spat on the street. He was not serious about his studies, nor was he that interested in his future work. He was tall, hairy and didn’t care about the crumbs in his beard or the ink on his fingers. It was true, was people said: he was without manners and he was careless. Maybe even a little gross. He did not mind. The gossips that he hated though, was that he was disrespectful of women, a catcaller and a promiscuous prick.

Bahorel loved women.

Unconventionally pretty women, funny-looking women, tall women, petite women, women with weird birthmark or freckles. Women with shy blue eyes, women with short black hair, women enveloped in shawls, naked women, old women, young women. They all were beautiful to him and the thought of upsetting them by being an abject asshole made him angry. He had five sisters, and not all of them had been treated well in their relationships. He wanted them to trust him, to consider him a genuinely nice guy. Of course he didn’t want to treat women like objects and be mean and vulgar to them. He just couldn’t help to be the old, simple, carefree Bahorel and sometimes people got the wrong idea.

He did experience lust, that was for sure, but not to the point that he couldn’t control himself. Especially in public. That is why when he met Sylvia, a tall dark woman, at the bar, he did not make a move. He got shy, surprisingly. Women did not make Bahorel shy, he treated them like any human beings and that was just too bad if they ran away. He did not want Sylvia to run away.

Sylvia was all teeth and dimples. She looked like she did not take life much seriously and like she did not like to frown. If her mouth wasn’t smiling amicably, her eyes were. According to Bahorel, the smile was the most important part of someone’s anatomy, and was as much a limb as an arm was. Sylvia had a smile to die for.

Nervously, he excused himself and went back to Feuilly who was sitting a few tables away. He wanted some advice and Feuilly was the most down to earth person he knew. His friend snorted at his shyness and told Bahorel to just converse the way he did with anyone else, and that the girl would have to fall for him on her own. He could not force her, he could not be someone else for her, he’d just have to be kindly himself.

Bahorel looked at Sylvia. Their gaze locked and, smiling, she motioned to him to come back. He obeyed, entrance. When he bumped into someone he hadn’t seen and nearly fell on his ass, spilling his beer all over the man, Sylvia bursted into laughter. It was the most beautiful sound Bahorel had ever heard. He apologized to the dude and took out his shirt to give him. The man seemed weirded out and moved away quickly without taking the shirt. Sylvia pointed at Bahorel’s naked torso and guffawed. She sounded like an hysterical seagull and it was such a great, original laugh that it was contagious. Bahorel came to her, grinning, and show her his biceps.

“M’mam, you might want to stop mocking these brawns. You would be sorry: I kicked some jerk’s ass for less than that.”

She snickered and it quickly hurtled down into choked cackles.

“I’m not joking, m’mam! I could fight you!” Bahorel insisted, but his grin was so big it was hurting his face. Sylvia seized her belly and laughed, and laughed some more.

She stopped after a while, sweat dripping from her temples and tears at the corners of her eyes. Her teeth was very white as she smiled cheekily at Bahorel.

“I’d like to see you try, big man,” she said.

Bahorel left the club with Feuilly and the number of who would be known later as his laughing mistress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the romantic comedy of the same name.


	4. Clerk (Feuilly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly is working in retail.

When you work in retail, you necessarily had to deal with customers, some more annoying than others. Surprisingly, the most aggravating people who came in the convenient store were Feuilly’s own friends. Even his best friend Bahorel was a pain in the ass: he was always trying to get things for free and due to the narrowness of the place and his friend’s impressive build, he was also always knocking stuff out.

Once, Joly and Bossuet came to his workplace and Bossuet walked right in the puddle of coke that Bahorel had spilt on the floor. The poor man fell backward and made an entire shelf of products fall down. Another time, Grantaire came in drunk and started talking to Feuilly loudly about his sexual prowesses, disturbing the other clients. When a woman told Grantaire that he was being loud and vulgar, he fart at her and she left without buying anything.

There were days when Feuilly thought his friends would get him fired. It had happened before. When he had been working a night shift with Jehan and Courfeyrac at a McDonald and the latter decided to throw a party in the restaurant, he was thrown under the bus so they would not all get fired. The friends that Jehan and Courf had invited had brought pinball guns and one of them accidentally fired his on the muffin stand. The shot had broken the glass. Since Feuilly was known to play pinballs with Bahorel from time to time, he took it on himself. Good times.

Still, most of his days, Feuilly spent hoping that someone he knew would show up at work. The truth was that he was always bored out of his mind behind his cash register. He did not regret his teenage days spent alone mopping the floor of some store he worked at. At least his friends made things interesting, although he liked to remind them how much shit he got because of them.

His friends were also useful when there were angry, aggressive clients who wanted to express their discontentment. Bahorel, who looked like a giant, intimidated them, so when he was there, their threats were more subdued. Grantaire, who could talk about nothing for hours on hand, tired them by getting into mindless debates. They just left, throwing his friend a nasty glare. Feuilly did not have the patience to deal with people most of the time, so it was nice to have weirdos as friends to ward them off.

Thinking about all of this, he bought Bahorel a pack of chips and a coke, smiling mysteriously as the giant threw him a bemused glance.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, “So I’m showing my gratitude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the comedy Clerks directed by Kevin Smith.


	5. In the Death of the Atmosphere (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is not the only one who has a love of Enjolras. But in Grantaire's own eyes, he is not much competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sadness because Grantaire.
> 
> Mention of Feuilly/Enjolras, and Grantaire/Enjolras

“I’m in love with Enjolras too,” Feuilly declared one day.

Grantaire said nothing at that time. He only finished his whisky and left the pub without uttering a sound. When he got home, he cried bitterly. Perhaps it was a bit oversensitive and naive, but Grantaire had felt his heart getting ripped off and stepped on, and all of the meagre hope he did not even know he was keeping going deflated like a balloon.

There was no chance to be had against Feuilly. Enjolras and Feuilly would go hand in hand like salt and pepper. Nothing could equal Enjolras’ fiery passion and ambitions, but Feuilly was the kind of everyday man that he admired. Feuilly was a hard worker, a vocal advocate for human rights and, ever the optimist, he drank every word of every speech the wild blonde made.

If Feuilly declared his flame to Enjolras, Grantaire had no doubt that he would be rewarded by a trembling acceptance and a bright smile. If Grantaire was to admit his feelings —although he was sure that Enjolras already knew about them— he would be met with either derision or kind disapproval. He did not know which one would hurt the most.

The next day, Feuilly came knocking to his door. Grantaire was sporting a mighty headache, but he greeted him with a smile and an apology. He offered his friend a can of soda and lighted a cigarette. Feuilly looked grave and disturbed, so Grantaire apologized again for his brusque attitude.

“It was very rude of me to leave like that,” he said. “I guess it was just a bit of a shock. I didn’t even know that you were gay.”

“I’m not anything,” Feuilly answered. At Grantaire’s questioning look, he only gave a shrug. “I said I was in love, not that I was gay. I’m sorry that it bothered you so much. I just thought I would be honest and tell you.”

“It’s fine really, I’m sure you have your chance with Enjolras. He had always liked you, which is more than I can say about me.”

“Enjolras likes you too, R. We are both his friends.”

“I’m his tormentor.”

“Don’t be so harsh with yourself.”

But Grantaire did not know that there was any other way to be towards himself. He did not deserve his own affection. He was coward and a leech, someone who could never let himself be open to anything positive. That was why Enjolras only looked in his direction with despair and exasperation in his baby blue eyes.

“I will tell Enjolras that I love him,” Feuilly said, “but only if you promise to do the same.”

“I will do no such thing. Enjolras knows how I feel.”

“Does he, now?”

“He knows.”

“Well, it is one thing to know and another to be told. I would like you to think about it,” Feuilly said. He patted Grantaire on the arm and left the apartment, probably reassured that there was no hard feeling between the two of them. There wasn’t: Grantaire could not bear to hate his own friend for doing what was the most natural thing in the world: loving Enjolras.

The same evening, at the Musain, Enjolras came to see Grantaire where he was playing dominoes with Joly. Joly quickly excused himself and Enjolras sat with Grantaire. He observed him for a moment, and said: “Feuilly told me he is in love with me.”

“Congrats!” exclaimed Grantaire, smirking. Enjolras did not smile.

“Don’t you have anything to say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Feuilly told me you’d have something to say about it.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras and thought. He imagined himself confessing to the blonde. He imagined Enjolras responding positively to his confession, kissing him happily. He imagined the both of them in a living Hell of constant disparate opinions. Both of them having to deal with Grantaire’s bouts of depression and with his alcoholism. He saw himself being forced into therapy. He saw Enjolras crying, exhausted, after a shouting match.

“No,” he answered. “I have nothing to tell you today. Aren’t you going to go out with Feuilly?”

Enjolras looked right ahead. He looked like he was grinding his teeth.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. He got up and left, and Grantaire was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the lyrics of the song "Army Men" by Charlotte Sometimes.


	6. Keep the Steets Empty for Me (Éponine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine never sleeps at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:
> 
> -Mention of child abuse.  
> -Sort of Suicidal ideation.

Éponine never slept at home since the day she turned fifteen. She was not scared of her parents, but she was scared of herself. Mistreat a wild animal and he would quickly turn against you, ready to rip at your throat. She was just the same. She couldn’t handle her mother’s harsh words and her father’s barked ordered like her sister Azelma was used to do. At the biting tone of her parents, she would bite back, more ferocious than the both of them could ever be. She had once punched a guy named Claquesou right in the face for making lewd comments at her the day she decided to wear a dress.

It was not that Éponine thought her situation was desperate: she was not beaten, and never had her father tried anything sexual, which were common stories in her neighbourhood. Still, at the end of the day she felt a little bit more inflamed, a little bit more ready to explode. It was not her fault that she wasn’t able to _endure_ like most people did. She could only focussed on her emotion of the moment and react to it. Most days, that emotion was a fine line between anger and bitterness.

There was nothing the Thénardiers suffered that they did not brought upon themselves. That’s what she thought. Nevertheless, Éponine thought that she still deserved a good warm bed at night. She had no qualms breaking into Montparnasse’s place and crashing on his double-bed. Later on, when she met Marius and learned that he was himself living at a friend’s place, she showed no inhibition knocking at the door of that stranger and demanding a place to stay.

However, there were nights when Éponine did not sleep at all. She would wander in the streets until the first hours of the morning. She would sometimes walk in the middle of the back alleys, uncaring, ignoring the rare passerby, the catcalls and the honking of the cars. She concentrated only on the sound of her steps that resonated on the cold asphalt. She walked for hours, until she had cramps and felt the blisters growing on her feet. The pain only served to make her smile.

Éponine liked the city at night. She was at ease in the streets. She liked the thrill of the danger, and the thought that she could get attacked at anytime by anyone, or anything. A pervert, a robber, a car or even a heart attack. She would lie on the hard ground, her hair in a dark displayed around her head, and she would take her fate as it comes. She swore that she could be able to laugh in the face of death. Nevertheless, when the morning came, over her tiredness, Éponine felt a sort of relief wash over her. It made her heart beat fast and, as she stopped to look at the sun rise between the tall buildings, she thought that maybe she was at peace with life in the end.

It was probably the sort of feeling animals felt when they realized they had survived another night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the song of the same name by Fever Ray


	7. We're on a Road to Nowhere (Bahorel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel and Feuilly are in a car. Feuilly admits that he has unrequited feelings for a certain someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of Feuilly/Enjolras and Grantaire/Enjolras

In the Summer, Bahorel liked to borrow his father’s pickup truck and to go on long rides on the country roads. Each time he did, he invited either one of his sisters or Feuilly to come with him, but if no one was available, he only blasted his Kansas songs to the fullest capacity of his speakers. His mother told him that he would end up deaf, but he laughed off her concerns.

This Wednesday evening, since he was on vacation, Feuilly had decided to come. He was oddly silent, though. Feuilly was not the most talkative person Bahorel knew, but it was easy to converse with him. He tended to put most of his focus on a person when they were trying to get his attention, even though he could do several tasks at a time. Feuilly had always been attentive and considerate. Yet, there he was, sullen, distracted and looking as lost as a poor puppy on the road.

“Hey, is something the matter?” Bahorel asked.

Feuilly didn’t seem to have heard him. He was looking out the window, his mouth hanging opened, and he was staring at the horses running in their enclosure on the side of the road. Bahorel parked the car, stretched his hand and slapped his friend on his thigh. Feuilly jumped and glared at Bahorel.

“Ow! What was that for, stupid head?”

“That was for not paying attention. You are supposed to be my wingman, and there you are spacing off. What is going on?”

Feuilly mumbled something and pointed at the road ahead.

“Don’t you ever get the impression that we’re going nowhere in life?”

“What?” Bahorel was surprised. He expected that kind of questions coming from Grantaire, but he did not saw it coming from Feuilly. Feuilly was an optimist and he was absolutely sure that the purpose of his life was to make other people feel better about their own. Feuilly shrugged.

“That was phrased badly. I mean... you follow the road to your goal all your life, and yet it feels like this road is... bland? Somehow? Not empty of meaning, not unimportant, but... that it seems to mean less when you’re alone.”

“But, you’re not alone man. What the fuck do you think I’m here for?”

Feuilly shook his head. He looked exasperated, but Bahorel doubt that it was directed at him.

“I mean. Alone as in... Nah, maybe you’re right. I’m only being capricious and difficult.”

“No, finish your thought.”

“Alone as in without a significant other.”

Ah. So that’s what was making his friend all melancholic and shit. The same thing that oppressed Grantaire’s head when it was not his bad self-esteem. The same thing that made that guy, Marius, sigh at their friend Courfeyrac for weeks. Love.

Bahorel did not understand romantic love. He was perfectly capable of being charming and romantic, and he did feel profound attachment to people, but never to the point of launching into melodramatics and philosophical numbness. He was happy to love, even when that love was never to be returned. He did not question his feelings or demand anything from it. He figured that, usually, love was selfish and that he was the one who was being weird about it.

“You have someone in mind, man?” Bahorel asked gently. Then he gasps exaggeratedly. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

“Stop. You sound like Courfeyrac.”

“And you sound like Grantaire.”

“Grantaire is part of my problem, that’s the thing.”

“You are in love with Grantaire? Our Grantaire?” Bahorel exclaimed. He liked Grantaire just fine, but he couldn’t figure out how someone right in their mind would fall for the man. Perhaps that was mean-spirited of him.

“No! Not Grantaire, Enjolras!”

“Oh,” Bahorel said as the information dawned on him. Grantaire had a powerful love of Enjolras. If you waited for him to get drunk enough, he would make your ears bleed with how much he loved the man. Bahorel understood Feuilly’s dilemma. He and Bahorel were close friends with Grantaire and it would be tough to get into a relationship and thus create some sort of crappy love triangle.

“I actually kissed him.”

“So?”

“So, he kissed back.”

“Ah, then that’s fantastic!”

“He kissed back, but he said it was not possible.”

“Aw, man. Was it because of Grantaire?”

“I don’t think so. I do not think that Enjolras is quite returning Grantaire’s feelings, or that he would keep himself from getting a love life not to hurt him. I was just thinking, I know what Grantaire feels now. I feel kinda empty and useless. Like I’m going nowhere, you know.”

Bahorel chewed on the inside of his cheek. He did not know what to respond to that. Briefly, he put one hand on Feuilly’s shoulder before starting the car again.

“Welp. So you got a heartache,” he finally said, “That happens. That doesn’t mean that the road is bland. It just means that love’s got you blind to its colour and its possibilities for a while. You’ll get excited about it again, I promise.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, we’re on that road together, man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the song by Talking Heads.


	8. Reservoir Dogs (Courfeyrac)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac doesn't think that their group of friends is meant to last, no matter how entertaining they are at Lunch Hour.

Courfeyrac thought that there was nothing more entertaining than Lunch Hour with Les Amis. They considered themselves a solid group of friends with common interests, but the truth was that, when they were all together, the nine of them, they rarely all got along. That excluded meetings, because those were work. They had no choice but to be civile to one another, to discuss calmly and to compromise during meetings. Lunch Hour though? That was another story.

Each Friday, at noon, they all assembled in one restaurant they picked randomly out of a hat —no one could choose unless they wanted to be judged by the group for the rest of their life— and the war started. Bahorel got on the nerves of Combeferre with his crass and loud attitude, and the latter acted so passive-aggressively that it made everyone uncomfortable. Jehan recited dark, outdated poetry and got a constipated look when he realized that no one understood or cared to understand. Bossuet was always irritated by the place they’d picked because it was always some crowded place where he was more likely to humiliate himself one way or another —often by spilling his food. Joly always annoyed everybody because he got anxious after getting a stomachache or a headache, never believed anyone that it was nothing, and had to be convinced to not go home or at the clinic. Feuilly always had to leave early, which made people grumble and whine. And of course, there were Enjolras and Grantaire. Of course.

Grantaire often arrived late, and one time out of two, he came with his own alcohol. That immediately put Enjolras into a bad mood, because he thought that noon was too soon for drunken uncouthness. They would find something to be petty over, like Grantaire’s being late, Enjolras being uptight or if the restaurant deserved to be encouraged. They would stare at each other with unrestrained fiery provocation, and they would raise their voices so high that the entire group would be asked curtly by a client or a manager to shut the fuck up. At other times, Enjolras would be the only one protesting while Grantaire doodled on his napkin, his calm being like oil on the fire of the other’s irritation.

The group did not find Grantaire and Enjolras’ antics as enjoyable as Courfeyrac thought them to be. Once, Joly and Bossuet even left because the ‘ambiance was too negative and that couldn’t be psychologically healthy’. Bahorel also threatened to kick Grantaire’s ass if he was to utter another word. The best time was when Combeferre went red in the face and told Grantaire, in a breath, to just shut his cakehole. Afterwards, he went to the bathroom and Courfeyrac joined him to notice that he was trembling. Combeferre did not like unnecessary conflicts and meaningless debates. It made him shifty and uncomfortable.

Outside of Lunch Hour, they did not all see each other. Joly and Bossuet, and Bahorel and Feuilly were two inseparable duos who spent most of their time with their respective siamese twin. Grantaire was friend with Joly and Bossuet, but also with Feuilly and Bahorel. Not always at the same time. Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac were obviously the known mighty three, but Combeferre almost never talked to anyone else except Joly sometimes. Enjolras tried to talk to everyone, tried to take the time to stay informed about his peers, but not everyone was patient enough to be his friend. He sometime got too intense and he could talk about the same political and social issues for hours, meaning his presence was tiring, even for his close friends. As for Jehan, he was a free electron, not really a friend or just a simple acquaintance to anyone.

Courfeyrac was the only one who really got along fine with everyone. Sometimes, he got the insight that one day, he’d have to choose. The choice was easy, since he’d known Combeferre and Enjolras before and cherished their friendship the most, but it still hurt to think about it. To think about the day their little clique would fall apart.

It would happen, one way or another, because they were all very different and, although they had a common goal, were all pointing in different directions. If he was lucky enough, Courfeyrac would remain in contact with most of them, as they would scatter away, but he did not feel confident enough to be the glue that would maintain them united. It seemed highly unlikely, and perhaps not meant to be. He could clearly see Combeferre, Enjolras and himself becoming the remains of a dream in the future, and though he was not much for gloomy, pessimistic thoughts, it made him sad sometimes.

“Hey, man! Courf! Are you going to order, or what?” Bahorel asked him impatiently.

Courfeyrac winked at the waitress who smiled and looked a bit flustered.

“Nothing for me, miss. But don’t worry, I’ll tip anyway!”

She winked back at him and got away with their commands. Courfeyrac’s last sentence immediately sparked a heated discussion between Grantaire and Enjolras about the ethic of tipping. Courfeyrac sighed and glanced at Combeferre. The man held his gaze and, for a few seconds, Courfeyrac got the impression that they were thinking the same thing. They averted their eyes and shared an awkward silence.

A moment passed before Courfeyrac brushed off his train of thoughts. He was young, after all, and he did not need to think too far into the future. He suddenly raised his glasses and everyone looked at him.

“To the shooting stars that we are! To us, reservoir dogs!” he declared.

His friends laughed it out as another one of his eccentricities. Only Combeferre seemed to know what he meant by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles comes from the Tarantino movie of the same name.


	9. Grave of the Fireflies (Combeferre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre has this odd little ceremony each time one of his mantises die.

The lifespan of a praying mantis was about a year. Sometimes, in captivity, they lasted fourteen months, but that had never happened to Combeferre. His mantises always died after the tenth month, despite all the care he provided for them. He kept reading about insects, their needs and their diets, but even though he thought he had improved himself, the results never changed: his mantises all died during the Winter.

Combeferre’s friends had often asked him why he wouldn’t get a small dog or a cat instead. Mammals, after all, lived for years before passing away. They also made for better companions, could learn tricks and be affectionate. Combeferre, with his deadpan expression, always replied that he had Courfeyrac and Enjolras for that purpose.

The truth was that he wasn’t really interested in reciprocal affection with an animal. What he liked the most was to observe, and the world of insects and arachnids was perfect for that. Insects did not mind being observed for hours, as long as they could live their short little lives in peace. Besides, each species was so incredibly fascinating: ants, for one, had a whole microsociety. They were divided by their societal role and they worked together. Some species of ants had even developed “bovine farming” and a sort of agriculture. Unfortunately, Combeferre did not own ants of these species, but he was perfectly content watching his household ants. The plus side was that ants reproduced and did their business in their large glass ant farm, and it almost did not matter that a lot of them ended up dying. With mantises, it was a little different. Mantises were bigger, more solitary and easier to get attached too. They were also Combeferre’s favourite insect.

Each time one mantis died, Combeferre had a ritual of a sort to realize. He would put the frail little body delicately in a small cardboard box, would tape the box and would bring it in his garden at night. Then he would go back inside to get a pack of matches. Combeferre put the box in a hole in the ground, neatly aligned with the other graves, and would light the matches, one after the other, and watch them burn to the tip of his fingers. Finally, he would let the burnt matches on top of the box and bury it.

Once, Enjolras asked him what was the point of the matches. He did not know if he had a point at all, but he remembered being little and running in the small woods behind his grandmother’s place with his brother, one humid evening. As it was getting darker, they had stop on their tracks because there was a dead raccoon in the middle of the path. Above the carcass, there were at least twenty fireflies lazily flying around. For some reason, the sight had stuck with Combeferre. It was too bad that there wasn’t many fireflies to be seen in Montreal.

“So the light is a way of paying respects to your mantises?” Enjolras asked.

“I think mostly it gives me something to do when they die instead of throwing them in the garbage can as though they were mere broken toys,” Combeferre confessed.

“Perhaps you could call me, next time,” Enjolras said. “I would bury them with you.”

It was a nice attention, but Combeferre preferred to do his rituals alone. He got antsy at the thought of someone watching him do what most would consider lunacy or over-sentimentalism. And perhaps he was sentimental, which felt odd to know, but he wanted to keep the bond between him and his insects special and untethered. He still smile at his friend and thanked him.

“But does it make you sad? That you can’t keep them alive?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre thought for a moment, and said: “It’s like a small light turning off inside. Each time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the movie of the same name by Isao Takahata and Studio Ghibli.


	10. Heavy Petting (Musichetta)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musichetta will never get tired of touching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains Joly/Musichetta/Bossuet

Musichetta had always been a very touchy-feely person. When she was a little girl —although other people were calling her a little boy at that time— she was always clinging to the grown ups’ legs so they would take her in their arms and offer hugs and cooing. She wanted to touch each new person she met, and it puzzled her the first time she was told that no everyone liked to be petted, that some people needed their spaces. She only began to understand when she saw her sister getting harassed by a man on the street, and when that stranger touched his sister’s ass. It had seemed like a violation, even in Musichetta’s confused mind. Nonetheless, she immediately thought about all the people with whom she’d feel comfortable to touch her private parts. They were many.

Now that she was an adult, and in a body that she had sculpted to her taste, Musichetta couldn’t go one day without a cuddle or a kiss. It had caused her a few problems with relationships in the past, as people misjudged her and thought her to be dependant, clingy and a cheater. It was true that Musichetta had a penchant for polyamory, but it saddened her that people associated being affectionate with being untrustworthy. Fortunately, she met Jean-Luc Joly and Didier “Bossuet” Lesgle, both of them being open to little touches and grand gestures of love.

Joly did not mind when Musichetta kissed him on the cheek when they were at the movies, on when she put his hand under her shirt. Bossuet liked when she caressed his bare head and murmured compliments in his ear about his smooth, dark skin. They greeted every flirty look, every embrace and every snuggle with a laugh and a heated gaze. They didn’t find her sensual needs boring or tiring, even as time passed. In fact, they were just as greedy for tactility as their mistress was.

Sometimes, they went to a park for a picnic and they huddled close to each other, on their back, to watch the clouds. Musichetta was often in the middle, though not always, and she liked to put the hand of each lover on her breasts. Having two men had gotten her dirty looks from other people in the park, and also in the street, but she did not have a damn to give. She was happy to be in the warmth of different people. If that made her a slut, then so be it. She did not see how it could be so wrong to enjoy the physical presence of nice, beautiful people in her life.

Sex was not the most important part of Musichetta’s relationship with her men. She loved it, of course, and her libido was doing good, but what she liked was less the sex than the sensation of being close to another body. She was perfectly content with some heavy petting, and a little groping session could be largely satisfying. Kisses, she wanted by the dozens. Once she started, it was hard to stop. It made Bossuet laugh and moan when she trailed kiss after kiss on his throat, talking about how she was addicted to his scent. It made Joly blush and grin when she pressed herself against his back and claimed that she could stay glued to him all day long.

It made her happy to share her space, her bubble, with her lovers. In a life that would be much too short anyway, she had no time for loneliness. She needed to feel everything around her, to feel life pulse under her hands and her lips. Seeing and hearing were not enough: touching assured you that the world was real. That you were a part of it and that you had some impact on it. At least, that’s what she thought. And each time Musichetta abandoned herself to heavy petting, reality soften at its edges and let her be in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the song "Toucha-toucha-toucha touch me" from the movie "The Rocky Horror Picture Show"


	11. Salt Fish Girl (Cosette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette thinks of herself as a fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> Mention of child abuse.
> 
> Contain Cosette/Marius

For the short while she stayed at the Thénardiers, Cosette learned from Éponine and Azelma that she smelt like a fish. They would sneer at her, pinch their nose and avoid her because of that. Even Mrs Thénardier agreed, and she made Cosette ate on the floor of the living room, far from the table where her family had diner. She also gave the little girl the nickname of Salt Fish Girl. It was meant to be derogatory and mean, but Cosette found that she liked the sound of it.

Valjean would tell Cosette that she had been fed lies, that there was nothing stinky about her, but Cosette clung to the nickname and claimed that it had nothing to do with the smell. It was true: she really did associate herself with fish. Perhaps it was because she had felt like a goldfish trapped in a small dirty tank for so long, or perhaps it was because she thought herself small and insignificant in an ocean of bigger predators, but it seemed to fit. Besides, it sounded even better than calling herself a mermaid.

Years later, Cosette told Marius that he too looked like a fish. He took it the wrong way and entered a sulky silence. Marius was used to being made fun of, so he thought that Cosette was mocking him for his features. She told him that she was a Salt Fish Girl and that is when he started protesting audibly. Cosette was not to insult herself, Cosette was more like a beautiful dove, she didn’t have dead eyes and a blank, stupid expression.

“But I’m still a fish,” she insisted. “One that lost its school in the ocean.”

“What, are you comparing yourself to _Finding Nemo_ , now?” Marius asked with a voice dotted with confusion. Cosette laughed.

“Well, I suppose so. My mother died, and my father is protective. He would brave an ocean to help me. A lot of the time, it feels like one of my fin is damaged. So I have to struggle harder to prove my worth. You’re not following, aren’t you?”

Marius had a sheepish smile. Cosette shrugged. He did not have to understand. Everyone was haunted by their own personal imagery. For Cosette, it was one of a fish. A salt fish, stubbornly swimming against the current, enduring the unforgiving water. She supposed that other people thought her lucky: she had a loving father and a dedicated boyfriend now. Wasn’t it time for her to be grateful and to stop perceiving her life as a game of survival? Yet, the image still felt fitting. In every smile she gave to strangers, every emotion she managed to express, every friend she made, Cosette saw a fish finally succeeding. Perhaps one day, she’d be a whale or a dolphin. One of the well known big mammals. For now, she was a small grey fish, a mere sardine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the book of the same name written by Larissa Lai.


	12. I meant it when I said: I wanna get Well (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire sometimes struggle to do the littlest things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> -Talk about depression

Telling his friends that he couldn’t do much that day was an euphemism: Grantaire couldn’t do anything. He had not even been able to get up from the bed to go take a piss. Somewhere in his messy room, there was a bottle of beer half-full with something yellow that was not beer. If he was lucky, it was still there, next to the bed, and not spilt on the floor.

There were days like this one when Grantaire woke up with the intense, overwhelming desire of simply not being. Thinking hurt, feeling hurt, even just looking around at the state of his room hurt him. So he spent hours just looking at the white ceiling, his limbs as useless as broken objects.

Grantaire was indifferent to the time that passed. It could be a minute or a day before he even decided to do something. That was hard to explain to his friends, why he was always late, why he couldn’t be expected to respect deadlines. He sounded like a lazy, pathetic bum each time he tried to voice an excuse, so he had stopped trying and assumed the role of the irresponsible fiend. Yet, there was one person for whom Grantaire thought it was important to get out of bed for. Strangely enough, that person was not even Enjolras, who did manage to give him some energy, but himself.

There was not point in lying: Grantaire did not like himself. His self-esteem had been down the drain for ever since he could remember developing a self-consciousness. He was attached to his own melancholy like one was to an abusive relationship. He had no talent worth mentioning, nothing interesting to say and very few redeeming qualities. And yet, he yearned. He yearned for a place, for some kind of positive attention, for the taste of life. He struggled against his pulsing urges to give up on himself and he spat a growing ire in the face of his depression.

Often, his parents and his friends had accused him of not wanting to get better: that was false. They simply expected him to heal faster than he could and to make constant progress, to never regress. It was an impossible promise to keep. Grantaire’s rhythm was slow, and the least effort was straining. The fact that he had maintained a job for so long was an exploit, and reducing the amount of alcohol he drank per night was almost a miracle. Especially when one considered that Grantaire, in that moment, could not even get up to piss.

His phone rang. He blindly stretched his arm and patted his bed without looking, grabbing his phone when he felt it under his finger. He looked at the screen: it was Bahorel. The man always nagged at him when he was in such a state. He thought he could convince Grantaire to do something, or at least lift his spirits. It works sometimes, but Grantaire did not want to talk. He let the phone ring, and ring.

He spent most of the day lying there. Twice, he felt tears rolling down his cheeks, but he made no sound and made no move to wipe them. He let his vision become blurry and then clear again. He imagined wicked patterns in the cracks of his ceiling. He ignored his stomach when it started to churn and protest against the imposes hunger. He did got up, once, when his mouth was so dried that it made him cough, so he could get a glass of water. He took the bottle of piss with him, emptied it in the toilet and flushed. All of that exhausted him, so he went back to sit on his bed and this time, he stared at the green wall in front of him.

The phone rang again around eight. Bored, he looked at the screen and did a double take when his mind registered that it was Enjolras. Why was the blonde calling him? He was not even aware that Enjolras had his number. He let the phone ring until it finally gave up, then he cradled it into his hands.

He wanted to hear Enjolras’ voice. Not because the man had called and would be upset if Grantaire did not call back, but out of pure selfish desire. He was tired and felt a little dead, but he slowly dialled Enjolras’ number, which he had learned by heart like the creep he was. After a moment of hesitation, he pressed Enter and waited. Enjolras answered after the second ring.

“Hello? R?”

Grantaire wetted his lips and tried to remember how to talk. “You called?” he asked, groggy.

“Yes, since you did not show up and did not answer Bahorel’s call. I just wanted to know if you were well,” he said.

Grantaire thought about it: he had not let himself dehydrate, he got up once, he was now talking to the intimidating blonde. It could be worse.

“I’m working on it,” he managed to answer.

“Okay,” Enjolras said. His tone was soft. “Well, take your time. I hope to see you in two days.”

“I hope I’ll be there,” Grantaire replied.

He had not lied. He was going to get up tomorrow morning, go to his job, hang out with his friends and then, in two days he’d see Enjolras. It’d be his reward for maintaining himself functioning. He was not well, but he wanted to be, and for that he had to take a step forward. He decided to take one right this instant.

“Enjolras?”

“Yes, Grantaire?”

“I’m looking forward to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the lyrics of the song "Get Well" by Icon for Hire


	13. Let the Right One In (Enjolras)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras doesn't invite many people in his home, but there are a few wolves he doesn't mind letting in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains E/R

It would have been wrong to call him a recluse, because Enjolras was aggressively social and cared about the good of the people. He never wanted to be trapped alone in a house, doing solitary work for more than a few hours. He had need of his friends, and he couldn’t bear to retreat from all human contact for too long, not because he was lonely, but because he felt useless when there was no one to hear him out.

Nevertheless, one day a week, he walked home directly from school and locked himself in his room to be by himself. People had proposed to accompany him many times, but he always refused and never invited anyone home. His bedroom was his happy place after a rough week, where he could read, relax, and play the cello when he had the time. He never did his work or his assignments in his room: it was supposed to be a place of peace and meditation.

Enjolras did not consider himself to be an introvert, but he perfectly understood what Combeferre meant when he said he needed time to recharge after dealing with a group of people. Besides, he felt highly uncomfortable at the thought of someone else than him wandering into his room, looking at his possessions, adding information to what they already knew about Enjolras. Fortunately, his friends respected his wishes and did not insist too much on seeing what his room looked like. In fact, they did not even come near his house that often. That is, except for one individual.

On top of being a pain in the ass and a vocal cynic, Grantaire was also a creepy stalker, that much Enjolras had noticed. Each Friday, he found his way to Enjolras’ university and walked behind Enjolras until he got home. He did not say anything, nor did he care about hiding himself. It was like he just wanted to see that Enjolras got home safe. When the blonde was back in his room, he could see the man observing the house for a moment before slowly walking away. He had told Combeferre this and his friend had express some concerns, but Enjolras did not feel endangered. In fact, he felt not only intrigued, but flattered. He knew that he ought to set his limits and confront Grantaire about it, but he liked their little routine well enough.

It was a well-known fact that Grantaire had a thing for Enjolras. He was not showing up at the group meetings because he firmly believed in their convictions, to the contrary. He liked to mock, to point out all the flaws in their way of thinking and to whine about the hopelessness of the world. Still, Enjolras could always feel his ardent gaze fixated on him when it was his turn to talk. A few times, he had caught Grantaire doodling him. Courfeyrac called it a lingering crush and Combeferre claimed it was obsessive behaviour. Enjolras did not care.

At first, the man’s fondness for him had been insulting. He had thought that Grantaire was following the group around because he found Enjolras pretty. It wasn’t so: Grantaire had told him, one evening during which it was not evident whether he was drunk or sober, that Enjolras had so much passion it felt like being a moth attracted to a flame. He had praised the blonde’s obstinacy and his temperament of an active dreamer and congratulated him for not letting Grantaire make a shame of his convictions. Then he had vomited profusely. That’s when Enjolras felt that, after all, he quite liked Grantaire.

One Friday afternoon, Enjolras decided that their little dance had to come to an end. He entered his home, but let the door open, hoping it would look like an invitation. He went to the kitchen to drink some water. His mother was there, reading at the table. She nodded at him, but she did not look away from her book. Enjolras went back to the front door where Grantaire was standing. When he saw Enjolras, he blushed and averted his eyes. He jokingly knock on the door. Enjolras smiled.

“Finally daring to come and talk to me?” Enjolras said.

“You know,” Grantaire started, “the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood had to work a little harder to get in the house. And here you are, leaving your door hanging open. What if I was a robber or worse? What if I was a wolf, with big eyes and big teeth?”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” Enjolras mocked on a deadpan tone. “Why don’t you come in?”

“It’s like you want to get eaten, or something.”

“You’re not a stranger, Grantaire. You are a friend. Come in.”

“You don’t like other people coming to your house,” Grantaire protested. He probably had gotten that information from Courfeyrac. Enjolras shrugged.

“I’ll make an exception if you promise to stop following me. Walk with me instead. We don’t have to talk, only if you’re going to follow me every week, I’d rather it be at my side.”

Grantaire nodded and took a step into the house. He gently closed the door behind him, like it was a fragile thing. Enjolras guessed that Grantaire was probably this way with every object, every person he deemed worth of respect. He was a kind man, despite his long rambling that aim to ridicule other people’s optimism. Or perhaps to strengthen it, in a way.

Without a word, Enjolras walked to his room, motioning Grantaire to follow him. He opened the door and let the man him. It was an impulsion. He figured that Grantaire could use some more happiness, so he would share his happy place with him. The shorter man looked agog. His mouth was hanging open and he did not seem to understand his luck. He always treated Enjolras with such reverence, it made the blonde shiver with pride.

“You must not try to provoke me into an argument, here,” Enjolras warned. “In fact, don’t talk at all. I come here to read and to listen to music so that I can have something personal to look forward to after working my ass off. I bet you’ll be content sitting there and watch me play the cello.”

“I’d be ecstatic,” murmured Grantaire. They exchanged a smile. Enjolras made Grantaire sit on his bed, and then he closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the book of the same name written by John Ajvide Lindqvist.


	14. The Bird and The Worm (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire can't help noticing the disparate between him and Enjolras. Jehan does not completely agree.

Before Enjolras, who was as magnificent and majestic as a great bird of prey, like a snowy owl or a bald eagle, Grantaire felt like a worm. A tiny, crawling, blind earthworm whose sole purpose was to dig its grave and be eventually devoured.

“Worms are important for the ecosystem,” Jehan argued. “Combeferre once told me that they aerate and mix the soil. They are a great asset to vegetation.”

“That was not my point, Jehan.”

“What _is_ your point, R? That you want to be a bird? What makes you think it would make you anymore interesting in the eyes of our solemn leader? Perhaps he likes you better as a worm.”

“My point is, Enjolras only has to open his arms and talk for people to stop and pay attention. Whether it’s good or bad attention doesn’t matter: people listen to him. He makes _me_ listen. He makes me drink his every word as though I actually believed in them. He has a talent, Enjolras. I’m a dime a dozen, and I struggle to move forward. That’s pathetic.”

“Admirable.”

“ _Pathetic_!” Grantaire snapped. Jehan remained unimpressed.

“My dear Grantaire, you see yourself as a little vermin. You wallow in your deep abjection of yourself and you suffer from depression. You question your worth each day that you live and you see the world as being full of giants who could step on you or tear you apart. And yet, yet you keep moving. You get up in the morning, you live your life one day at a time. You take care of your problems, you are always there to help a friend and you still have the strength to smile and joke around. That, my friend, is admirable.”

Grantaire flustered as Jehan talked. Praise was alien to him, like the echo of something that could never penetrate his brain. He felt awkward each time he received a compliment. He was glad, though, that his friend seemed to understand what he was going through.

“Besides,” Jehan continued, “Haven’t you heard of that poem by Poe? In the tragedy called ‘man’, the hero is a conqueror worm.”

This warranted a snicker from Grantaire. “You would be the type to like Poe,” he said.

“Deliciously dark. Can’t resist the classics, can I? But I was serious. If life was to smite us with its wicked turns and its despicable tricks, you would be the one to be strong.”

“Oh, Jehan. If drama were to come this way, I would simply drink until I was too drunk to notice it was there. You guys are the brave ones. I’m only surviving.”

“Are you? You are here, with me, having a philosophical chat. A few minutes ago, you were threatening to stay in bed all day. I think, sir, that you are better at living than you think you are. I think that your incommensurable efforts, one day, will pay off. You will die with a victorious smile on your lips, believe me.”

“Why are you talking about death, now?” Grantaire grumbled.

“Death is intrinsic to life, therefore it is always an appropriate subject to bring up.”

“Ha, if you say so. Anyway, thank you Jehan. I might not trust in what you say, but it sure as hell feels good to know that you have that much esteem for me. Even if it’s misguided.”

“Alas, poor Grantaire,” Jehan sighed, the melodrama dripping from his voice, “I won’t be able to convince you of your worth tonight, will I?”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, well. Perhaps one day, the realization that you matter will worm its way inside you,” Jehan said. “And that day you will see that even as a consumption for the bird, the worm is at the base of the food chain for a reason. The very life force of those winged creatures you keep admiring. Without the worm, what is the bird?”

“Um, a mice-eating bird?”

Jehan rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I only hope that you know how much I appreciate you, my little maggot.”

Grantaire laughed. “Of course. I be the maggot, and you be the cicada singing all Spring about my hidden inner beauties.”

“And Enjolras be the lark that will ended making a feast out of us,” quipped Jehan, but his smile was kind and patient. Grantaire felt a warm fondness towards the man. He might not be able to be completely cheered up, but at least his sighs and his sorrow did not bother Jehan. He might have been a mere insect in life, but at least he had a companion. It was a little sad that Jehan saw all of these fantastic things in him, as he was bound to get disappointed one day, but the sheer love with which Jehan spoke was reassuring and welcomed, if only for that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the song of the same name by The Used.


	15. Bossuet and Joly Discover the Secrets of the Universe (Bossuet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Bossuet made Joly cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joly/Bossuet (before they met Musichetta)

The first time Bossuet made Joly cry, it was when they were both sixteen years old.

Bossuet had met his friend a year before and soon enough they had discovered that they went together like salt and pepper, chocolate and vanilla, or Snoopy and Woodstock. It was not that they had that many things in common, but they loved each new thing they learned about each other. They found trait they admired in the other and drew their strength from their odd friendship. After a month, they did everything together and could not do without the other’s presence.

Being a teenager, Bossuet sometimes had the urge to experiment with the nice girls who winked at him at his school, but he refrained from making a steady girlfriend because he knew that Joly would always come first. As for Joly, he was not very popular. He was a short, nerdy-looking teen with big glasses and tern brown hair. He was also hypochondriac.

People got unnerved by Joly’s condition. They thought he was a fake, and that he pretended to be sick to get attention. He was ridiculed by a lot of his peers, who took a mean-spirited pleasure in telling him that he looked sickly, or was that a rash under his chin? Bossuet had to get angry and threaten to kick the ass of anyone who would make fun of his friends, but he was not particularly impressive. Anybody who had seen Bossuet trip on his own feet wouldn’t feel much intimidated by him. At least, he tried.

Despite his hypochondria and his getting bullied a lot, Joly was a very jovial person. He smiled at people and he was always happy to help or to tell a new joke. He was pleased by the littlest details of life, like the sent of freshly cut flowers, of the feeling of the pages of a book under his fingers. It was very hard to demoralize him, which reassured Bossuet. Still, his health anxiety sometimes got in the way of Bossuet’s own capacity to enjoy the little things.

Once, when he was on a date with a particularly pretty woman with cute little cherry earrings, Joly called him and urged him to come and get him at the bowling place where he was hanging out with other friends —Bossuet was the only one of them who owned a car. Bossuet had to stand his date up, and it turns out that Joly only thought he had a concussion because he had bumped his head against the counter when he fell. It had made Joly’s other friends laugh, but Bossuet had to take Joly’s home and hold him until he stopped begging to see a doctor.

Sometimes, Joly would call him during the night, persuaded he had stopped breathing during his sleep and unable to get back to it. Bossuet would calmly talk to Joly until he’d fall asleep again, telling him stories about himself and his family, or reading him fairy tales. It seemed like Joly was infinitely grateful for all that Bossuet did for him, but that he felt a bit indebt to him. Bossuet kept saying that it was nothing, that it was what friends were for, but the guilty looks did not disappear from Joly’s face. It tainted his smile and Bossuet did not like it.

Then the day came when Bossuet met a girl who was ready to have sex with him. He was sixteen and she was seventeen. She was tall, curvy and ravishing. He told Joly excitedly that he was going to get laid that night, and Joly promised to not bother him, not to call him at an importune moment. He kept his promise and did not call at all. Bossuet and the girl —Judith was her name— were getting it on, kissing and groping on Bossuet’s backseat. Only, when she got his cock out of his pants, it was limp. Bossuet tried to get an erection, but something was keeping him from enjoying the whole thing. He was thinking about his silent phone, about Joly who might be alone at home, and how his friend could have a panic attack and still not call him because he was afraid to bother Bossuet. His worry took a solid hold on him and he had to stop Judith. He felt deeply humiliated, despite Judith’s insistent claims that it happened, and that she was not offended. She did not even laugh at him.

The first thing Bossuet did after taking Judith back home was to go at Joly’s place. His friend was very surprised to see him that early. He was even more surprised when Bossuet hurriedly asked if everything was alright.

“Why wouldn’t I be alright?” Joly inquired. “My parents are downstairs. I’m fine. I think, anyway.”

“I am not used to not getting any call or text from you,” Bossuet admitted. “I kept thinking about how you might need my help, and I was so preoccupied that I couldn’t get an erection. Do you think that’s normal?”

That is when Joly stared at him, mouth hanging open, and started to cry. Panicked, Bossuet asked what he had said that was so bad. Big round tears were rolling down his friend’s cheek and Joly opened his arms to hug Bossuet tightly.

“I’m so sorry!” Joly wailed.

“Sorry for what? You didn’t do anything!”

“I’m making your dick limp!”

Bossuet startled at the shout. It was so sudden, so ridiculous that he couldn’t help bursting into laughter. Joly pushed him away, apparently insulted. Bossuet pulled him back in.

“Oh, Joly! Jolllly! You idiot! Stop feeling guilty for such stupid matters!”

“But you were so excited to be with that girl!” Joly protested.

“Yeah but... isn’t it telling that she was ready to suck my dick and all I could think about was you?” Bossuet said. Joly stared at him and Bossuet got a bit shy. He pulled away and looked down. Then he smiled, because what the hell? Joly would not judge him. “You are not making my dick limp, Joly. I think that your absence was.”

Joly blushed and pressed both of his hands against his reddening cheeks.

“A-Are you s-saying that you want me?” he stuttered.

“I hope that it doesn’t shock you,” Bossuet answered.

“What, even though I must be getting on your nerves with my... phobia?”

“You are not getting on my nerves at all, Joly,” Bossuet said softly. “That problem is a part of you and I accept it, just like you accept it when I run in a brick wall or when I spill my drinks on you. Really, you are not a burden. It’s more like, I’m not at peace without you.”

Joly started crying again, but under his teary eyes, he was grinning.

“I love you too Bossuet Lesgle!” he cried out. Bossuet flushed and pressed his hand against Joly’s mouth.

“Shut up! Don’t be embarrassing about it!” he said, but Joly was laughing in delight behind his hand, so he could only replace it with his mouth.

Their first kiss was both salty and sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the book called "Dante and Aristotle Discover the Secrets of the Universe" by Benjamin Alire Saenz.


	16. Angels in America (Jehan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan and Enjolras have one passion in common: music. Enjolras plays the cello in his spare time and Jehan sings.

Although they felt their group was united thanks to the common goals and values of its members, Les Amis were pretty divided when it came to friendships. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were a fine trio, Bahorel and Feuilly mostly hang out together, Bossuet and Joly were inseparable, Grantaire went to each group when he felt like it and Jehan... Jehan was a loner. He knew that his friends cared about him and that he would be greeted warmly if he chose to hang out with any sub-group, but he was reluctant to impose his presence to anyone. He suffered from mood swings, and although he valued kindness, he was choleric in nature and sometimes had trouble to endure other or himself. Jehan preferred to assist to meetings, talk when his voice was required, and recite poems when his friends were in need of a distraction. The rest of the time, he mostly spent alone, in his small apartment, writing and taking care of his plants.

There were a few exceptions, however, to this self-imposed solitude. Sometimes, Jehan would go and get a drink with Bahorel. Other times, he would inquired about art to Feuilly and Grantaire. Sometimes, he would hang out with Courfeyrac, sharing salty and sultry stories. What he liked to do the most though, was to spend time with Enjolras.

Jehan had few passions aside from his poetry, his prose and his horticulture, those three being the ones he shared with anyone. He liked to keep his other hobbies private or secret, question to have a semblance of a mystery to his person. One of these secret passions was music. Jehan did not only listen to music, he felt it resonate deep inside himself. He felt it running into his blood and clawing at his bones. He got goosebumps when he concentrated on a particularly lovely piece and thousands of images, colours and stories would sprung up in his mind. Whenever there were music, music of any kind, Jehan felt at peace. It was a hard feeling to describe, so he never really tried.

Enjolras seemed to feel the same way about music. It was not a well-known fact, but the leader of their little group was a good cellist. When he played, he looked entranced by the sounds he made. He would close his eyes, open his mouth and his cheeks would take a nice rosy shade. He looked like he was feeling pure ecstasy. He never played in front of anyone that was not Jehan. It wasn’t that he especially trusted Jehan, but one day he walked in on Jehan singing in the Musain and apparently liked his voice. He then abruptly proposed that they formed a duo: him with his cello, and Jehan as a singer. And it worked. It worked very well.

The melodies were always simple ballades, never too upbeat, but not too sad either. There was a bittersweet taste to them, one that Jehan hadn’t known Enjolras had grown inside himself. They were inspiring and it was easy for Jehan to write down new lyrics. When he couldn’t find what to say, he simply emitted charming humming sounds that made Enjolras smile.

Jehan adored their little duo more than anything else. They did not really talk, except to exchange some technicalities, but when they went at it, it was like they were united by blood. Jehan could almost see the green and pink coloured links between his throat and Enjolras’ hands, the link of two musicians allied to make art survive in that sombre world. They both looked like angels, mysterious creatures alimented by their need to express an emotion that was failed by the human language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the mini-series of the same name based on the play by Tony Kushner.


	17. Submarine (Jehan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan has mood swings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk about a kind of condition that might resembles bipolarity.

Jehan did not know what it was that affected his moods, but he often felt it submerge him below what felt like cold, dark waters. He had seen Grantaire buried himself into deep phase of depression, but it was not exactly what he felt. He certainly was prone to bouts of melancholia, but the next instant, he could be even more joyful than their most positive friend Joly. Only, happiness was always a temporary wave that washed over him for a few hours or so. It came all at once, and then completely disappeared for a while. It was as though Jehan was sitting on a beach, trapped under heavy layers of sand, and could only wait for the tide to come and go.

His mother offered him to take him to a therapist when he was fourteen. She had found him kicking and creaming in his room, tearing apart pages of poetic works he had spent days writing: a few minutes after, he was already feeling better. It had worried his parents, how much he could go from amiable and nice to moody and snappy. Nonetheless, Jehan did not want to see anyone. When he was in a sour mood, it gave him inspiration and the ability to empathize with people who had it worse then him such as Grantaire. When he was in a good mood, it felt so good and he was so immensely productive: who would want to give that away in exchange for pills and draining sessions with a shrink? Jehan didn’t want a neutral mood. He did not want to get ‘normalized’ or for his mind to ‘stabilized’.

He knew that it was not really healthy. He had even dealt with a phase where he thought it would be better for him to run away from his family and friends. He had bought a bus ticket and travelled from town to town for days before getting tired and contacting his mother. Everybody had been mad with him. They thought he had tried to kill himself. That was not too far from the truth since he had starved himself for all of his trip.

It did not matter.

Jehan liked to live some sort of ‘bohemian’ life, letting his instincts and his emotions control him whenever he could. He was certain that if he tried to control them, it would eventually kill him, or at the very least transform him into a lifeless creature. He needed his extreme passions and strived on them, no matter what the doctors or his family would tell him. It did not make him sad that they wanted to change that aspect of him. He guessed he was a lot to handle at times. Still, all of his understanding would never be worth the great waves, the palpitation of the sea that made him feel alive. They were overwhelming and Jehan liked to be overwhelmed.

Grantaire once asked him if it was not a bit like drowning. That’s how it felt to him. Jehan replied that it was like lying on a shore, or perhaps like being a submarine. A submarine without anyone qualified on board maybe, a mere object that was toy with by the ocean. Grantaire simply creased his brow and nodded, like he was getting it. Jehan doubted that he did. Grantaire was not an explorer, he was someone that was thrown into the sea. Jehan was someone whose’s life was the sea, who was happy wandering and testing the waters.

It always made for a good story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the British movie of the same name.


	18. A French Werewolf in Quebec (Courfeyrac)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is not a real werewolf, but he's been called a beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight Combeferre/Courfeyrac if you want it there.

Courfeyrac arrived in Quebec at the tender age of eleven. He had a strong French accent, and somehow that made the other boys roll their eyes, but some of the girls in his class fawned over him. That’s when he realized what was desire and sexual attraction. He did not do anything before he was fourteen, which is when a fifteen years old girl approached him and called his voice sexy. It was the first time he was called sexy, and it was the first time he dared to propositioned someone. Since the girl blushed and said yes, he grew more confident.

It was not that Courfeyrac was particularly attractive, or at least not conventionally so. He was round in the face and had a small belly, and he had an acne problem. He looked ordinary. Yet, the way he talked, the way he babbled, flattered, sang or laughed, somehow it drew people to him. Most of the time though, it was his voice that did the trick. He kept getting told that he sounded older, more mature, and absolutely charming. He wasn’t about to deny any of that.

After his first time, which went surprisingly well considering how inexperienced and young he was, Courfeyrac immediately became addicted to desire and sex. He was curious as to how many women, and perhaps even men, he could get in his bed. He still had the reserve to never insist when someone looked uncomfortable, but he took pleasure in the whole seduction process. Courfeyrac tended to fall in love with people’s reaction to his charms rather than with the person themself, and so he fell in love often and not always reasonably.

It was not his fault if the blush over a woman’s face made his heart beat faster, if the ability he had to make a man shivered made him fill with pride, if the luscious looks he got immediately pulled him to whoever was throwing them. Courfeyrac was a man of passion, that is all, and he failed to see what could be wrong with sharing this aspect of himself with those who consented to try him. He made no promise. He gave no false hope. He was seen as a nice, considerate Don Juan, unable to resist the temptation of carnal pleasures.

There was a man —it was Courfeyrac first same-sex relationship— who said that Courfeyrac reminded him of a werewolf. He was strong, frisky and fascinating, yet he lacked control, and that would scare off most people. Coufeyrac thought the comparison a little exaggerated. He did not feel his temperament like a condition, or a curse, or whatever lycanthropy was described as in the movies. He did not want to see himself as a normal person who suddenly changed when they wanted sex: he was the same old guy before, during, and after sex. Nevertheless, he liked being thought of as someone mysterious and perhaps a bit beastly. He thought it was exciting that his lover had compared him to a creature of the night, something supernatural and out-of-this-world.

After that occurrence, he kept asking the people he slept with if they had the same impression about him. Most of them were surprised by the question, but they answered laughingly that it was rather fitting. Courfeyrac began to nickname himself the Werewolf of Montreal, or the French Beast, which made his friends roll their eyes.

“They’re nothing beastly about you,” Combeferre would say, “And you are more of an eager dog than a wolf, really.”

“Want me to show you how wolfish I can be?” Courfeyrac would reply.

Despite what his friend said, Courfeyrac hardly had anyone among his conquests who disagreed with him.

With the years, he did not settle down, nor did he felt the need to. His parents told him that the day he would fall in love, he would stop all of his childishness, but that day failed to come, even as his mid-twenties approached. He was not a grand romantic. He valued small attachments and special one-night things over an relational commitment. He was gentle and well-liked, but he was not seen as an ideal companion. The only emotional commitment he had was with his best friends.

“Perhaps that his why they call you a wolf,” Enjolras would suggest. “You need a pack, and to mate, but not a significant other.”

“Wolves are generally monogamous and mate for life,” would argue Combeferre.

“Spoilsport!” would laugh Courfeyrac.

He wonder sometimes why both of his friends wouldn’t try anything with him, and if it had anything to do with his reputation. He did not dare to ask, not to shamble the connection they had and to bring confusion into it. He also wondered why he was content only having close friends, but not a girlfriend or a boyfriend. He did not feel lonely, or like he was missing out on anything. Perhaps he was aromantic. Perhaps he was some kind of genie that existed mostly to satisfy other people desires. When he expressed that idea, Combeferre actually snickered.

“Courfeyrac, would you stop romanticizing yourself? You are neither a wolf or a genie. There are other people with the same kind of sexual needs and lack of romantic drive that you have.”

“So you are not afraid that I’ll come to ravish you into the night?” Courfeyrac joked, feeling a bit audacious.

Combeferre smiled tenderly. “You are a ravishing person, but I’m not worried about that, no. If you were a supernatural creature, you’d still be a gentleman.”

“A French gentleman!”

“And a humane one.”

Courfeyrac thought that maybe that was the most flattering compliment he ever received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the movie called "An American Werewolf in London" directed by John Landis.


	19. The Lady and the Tramp (Marius)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius thinks that Cosette and him make for an odd couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contain Marius/Cosette

It was on a bright Thursday afternoon that Cosette asked Marius out, and he almost wanted to die in that moment. He thought she was mocking him because she learned about his secret crush on her. He even thought about running back home, leaving her there. Fortunately, he resisted the temptation when he saw that Cosette had a faint blush on her cheek and that she was biting her bottom lip, which she often did when she was nervous. She did not have the look of someone pulling a mean prank, so Marius found it in himself to take her hand and she let him.

Apparently, everybody saw it coming, their union. Marius was at lost as to why. He was a lanky man with a perpetual perplexed expression and he’d been called a wuss and an idiot in the past. Cosette was graceful, pretty and kind. She was also smart and daring. While Marius had always had trouble making friends, it was rare to find someone who did not love the small brunette. In his eyes, they were an odd couple, something special coming right out of a romance novel, one in which the perfect woman or the perfect man deign to look at a banal tramp.

Cosette did not approve of that kind of talk. She told Marius that he was a great person with his sheer load of qualities.

“You are a nice man, a polite man, a smart man,” she enumerated, frowning at him, “You know four languages, you are admirable loyal, you can cook and you are very, very handsome.”

Marius could hardly believe his ears, but as she kept going, he felt himself feeling light and happy. Cosette was not a flatterer: she was blunt and honest, not shy like he was. She would not be lying if she did not see those things inside him. Therefore, he felt more confident than ever.

“You can stop, you can stop!” he exclaimed, joyfully. “I believe you. You are very good to me and I hope that I haven’t made you think that I felt us being together was a bad thing! I just feel lucky. Incredibly lucky.”

Cosette stuck her tongue at him and he kissed her on the nose. She laughed, gayly.

“We’re both lucky, Marius. You’re not anymore fortunate than I am. This is a happiness that we share.”

“A shared happiness. You are right. I like it very much,” Marius said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the Disney movie of the same name.


	20. Book of Love (Combeferre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre and Courfeyrac are polar opposite when it comes to their relationship with sex, but they make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contain Combeferre/Courfeyrac

Combeferre had never felt the pull of sexual desire, but when he looked at his friend Courfeyrac, he did feel attracted to him in his own way. He did not think Courfeyrac that physically desirable, but he was pleasant to look at, and he would not mind showering him in embraces and kisses. In fact, he would like it very much.

As for Courfeyrac, he was a very sensual, very sexual being. Each week, he had a new companion, a new partner, with whom he would parade around shamelessly. He was very much into grand demonstrations of affection and big gestures, into public groping and messy kissing. He couldn’t do without his sexual prowesses for too long. He, too, was very much interested into Combeferre.

When they confessed their feelings, they thought this would be a problem. Coureyrac did not want to impose his needs on Combeferre, who in turn did not want to turn off Courfeyrac from him by being too intransigent with his lack of sexual drive. They were both afraid of damaging their friendship if something happened that would make them unable to sustain a romantic love.

Fortunately, Joly had the good sense to declare one day that they did not have to have a relationship based on the expectation of everyone else: that he, Musichetta and Bossuet were perfectly happy with polyamory. When Combeferre and Courfeyrac found themselves alone again in the latter’s room, he shyly asked if Combeferre would be comfortable with an open relationship.

“I could sleep with other people, and you wouldn’t have to do anything,” he said.

“Courfeyrac, it’s not that I don’t want to try anything with you. I’m not repelled by the idea of sex, it just doesn’t appeal to me as much as it does to you.”

“I understand that, but I can be—”

“I am scared,” Combeferre admitted, “to be only a dime a dozen in the list of your conquests. I am scared to share you.”

Courfeyrac cupped Combeferre’s face in his hands and kissed him softly on the lips, and then on the forehead. “Ferre. You would not be sharing me. Not on an emotional level, anyway. I mean, I always come back to you, don’t I? You are practically always on my mind. The last few times I fucked someone, I might have... I might have been thinking about you. Of course, this is a suggestion. This is not me imposing my law. I guess I could just masturbate a lot.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Silly? _Me_?” Courfeyrac squeaked, winking. Combeferre smiled.

“I would be a pest. I would want to know with whom you have been, for how long, what you were thinking about, etc. I would need reassuring.”

“My dear Combeferre, I have no secret for you! You already know about all the people I’ve been with! And if you don’t remember, I can refresh your memory.”

“You remember _each one_ of your lovers?” Combeferre asked with surprise. That was impressive, and strange coming from Courfeyrac.

“Well, not exactly by heart,” Courfeyrac said, “But I keep a journal.”

“You do?”

Courfeyrac went to his desk and took a large blue book that indeed looked like a journal. He gave it to Combeferre who immediately started to skim through it. On each page, there were a series of names, with a date and a note on ten. Combeferre rolled his eyes, but that is when he saw that, from a certain place in the book, there were paragraphs written in a neat writing.

“Can I read those?” he asked.

“I want you to read them,” Courfeyrac pressed.

So he did, and his heart started beating faster. The tip of his ears went red and he pushed his glasses up his nose in an embarrassed gesture. The paragraphs were all about Combeferre. It was all praises, notifications, little facts and even fantasies about him. There were a few photos here and there of Combeferre and Courfeyrac together. Courfeyrac had drawn little hearts around the pictures. There were no note out of ten about Combeferre.

“I do not want to pressure you in any kind of relationship,” Courfeyrac said. “I just wanted you to know that I—”

“Me too,” Combeferre blurted out. “I don’t feel pressured. That is... I’m... I do not know what to say. Can I keep the book?”

“Why, yes. Certainly. I will need a new one anyway.”

“A new one?” Combeferre repeated.

“So I can fill it with all the cuddles and snuggles and kisses we are going to do, obviously!”

Combeferre grinned and ducked his head. Then he took a decision. “Courfeyrac, I do not mind if you sleep with other peaple.”

“Really? Are you sure? Like I said, I could use my—”

“Sex doesn’t matter to me. I only want your affection. I think it’s fair to say that I already got it. I hope it’ll be for a long time. I think we can make this work.”

“I think we already worked well before, and we’ve known each other since forever. Hell, perhaps we were already married and we did not know it. We can do this Ferre! I have trust in us!”

Combeferre laughed and took both of his lover’s hands.

“I trust in us too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the lyrics of the song "American Pie" by Don McLean.


	21. Little Red Riding Hood (Enjolras)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras had avoided relationship of a sexual nature because he didn't trust people. At twenty, he finds himself trusting Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> -Mention of sexual harassment.
> 
> Contain E/R

By the age of twenty, Enjolras was well-accustomed to being mistaken for a woman and to being purposely misgendered by frustrated men who thought they ought to attack him for not conforming to their expectations. With his long blonde hair, his tall and thin body, his feminine traits, his mannerism and his red, flashy apparel, he knew he looked peculiar. He was catcalled on the streets and he had been groped in bars before —which is why he stopped going. People either found him excessively beautiful, or they rejected his appearance completely because he looked too ‘fruity’. It made him self-conscious, but in no way was he going to balk under pressure and try to fit in.

This kind of harassment and hostility, mixed with the certitude that he had so much better to do than frolicking, had transformed Enjolras into a chaste person who rolled his eyes at his friends when they made sex such an important issue. He did not look at women at all, but nor did he indulge himself by looking at men. Especially not in the way they looked at him. However, that did not mean he was not curious.

Enjolras’ mother had warned him that, because people were superficial and put so much worth into getting laid, they would try anything to get into his pants. That included faking being interested in him and feigning to listen to him. She said that she knew what she was talking about. Enjolras had no trouble believing her. People had even told him to shut up because they thought that he had nothing worthwhile to say, that he was just a pretty face and an attention-whore. He had been bullied in the past. People propositioning him, making lewd comments about him and asking him if he wore so much red because he wanted to be followed home. Enjolras had taken self-defence classes just in case someone actually did.

At least, he had a group of friends in which he trusted, and there was a certain someone who always listened to him despite disagreeing with almost everything he said.

Grantaire, next to Enjolras anyway, was not someone who made heads turn. He was a little fat, he had droopy eyes, messy hair and a large, weird-looking nose. He declared himself ugly, and each time he did, there was a delay before their friends denied it. They were torn between being honest and trying to reassure him.

If he was to be frank, Enjolras did not really measured things in terms of beauty or ugliness. Those were concepts that repulsed him a little when applied to living beings. There was so much emphasis on the value of being beautiful, but Enjolras preferred what was interesting to the eye, and to the ear too. Grantaire was nothing if not interesting. He might have been a drunk and a rambler, he made good point and challenged Enjolras, which in turn reinforced his ideals and his convictions. He seemed to rejoice listening to Enjolras too, and he never missed a meeting. He was attentive, even when he didn’t look like it, and his eyes were filled with admiration, gentleness and modesty. Not that Grantaire was always gentle —his argument could be brutally condescending at times— but he was caring, that was for sure. If Enjolras was to be honest, he was not indifferent to Grantaire’s peculiar charms.

One night, Enjolras confided in his friend Combeferre that he had the intention of flirting with Grantaire. Combeferre threw him an incredulous look and warned him about Grantaire’s obsessive nature. Enjolras brushed his concerns off. After the next meeting, he asked Grantaire if he wanted to walk with him. Grantaire looked surprised, but he acquiesced. They walked side by side towards Enjolras’ home without talking much. The truth was that Enjolras had no idea how to flirt, how to come onto someone. Grantaire looked a little unsettled too: they rarely if ever talked casually. Before he reached his mother’s house, Enjolras nervously put his hand into Grantaire’s own. That warranted him a gaping expression and Grantaire stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire breathed.

“I don’t know?” Enjolras admitted. He averted his eyes and pressed Grantaire’s hand. It felt good. Grantaire pressed back and Enjolras blushed. “I am... interested,” he finally said.

“Interested in me?” Grantaire asked. He seemed disconcerted, but he did not let go of Enjolras’ hand.

“Well, yes. I thought it was reciprocated. You know, the way you look at me. Unless you only find me physically attractive, and that nothing else—”

“Don’t be absurd,” Grantaire protested. “Your physique is far from being the most attractive thing about you. Of course, it is reciprocated. I am surprised, that’s it. That someone such as you would have his heart set on someone like me...”

“Now, who’s being absurd?”

“You could have anyone else.”

“So I will have you,” Enjolras teased. It was official: Grantaire liked him.

Grantaire grinned, the tip of his ears red, and his face looking particularly handsome to Enjolras. He pulled Enjolras to him and his free hand cupped the back of his head, caressing the long blonde hair.

“I consent to try,” Grantaire said. He was trembling a little. “Can I— Can I kiss you?”

Enjolras nodded. His first kiss had the sweet taste of renewed confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the fairy tale of the same name.


	22. Ode to Joy (Joly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Joly deals with anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Talk about hypochondria  
> -Mention of Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta.

Joly was not a stranger to panic attacks. He got them in the night when he thought he couldn’t breath, and he sometimes got them in the morning when he found a scratch on his body that he had yet to disinfect. Musichetta had forbidden him to use WebMD when he was feeling particularly anxious, because she was afraid that this kind of website would render him completely paranoid. It was probably false: Joly still had his medical books and reading them had been soothing in the past. He wanted to please her though, and he could never be too careful.

Instead of looking up diseases and symptoms, when he felt out of breath and disproportionately anxious, Joly gave himself to music. He took his laptop and headphones, sat in their empty bathtub, and listened to happy songs and melodies that reminded him of all the joy that still existed in the world despite the viruses, the pestilence, the contagions and the deaths. His favourite piece was the ninth of Beethoven, which he could listen on repeat at least three times in a row. He was most especially fond of the fourth movement, “Ode to Joy”. It was an upbeat, agreeable ending for a symphony. The poem and song by Schiller on which it was based on seemed a little naive, but it filled Joly with hope and a newly healed confidence.

Sometimes, when Joly was having an “hypochondria crisis”, as his friends would call it, he asked Bossuet to sing the song to him. It was rather amusing to hear his boyfriend try to speak in German. Their friend Jehan Prouvaire was better at it —and had a lovelier voice— but it reassured him that someone so close to him could sing about joy, brotherhood and peace without getting tired of it. Musichetta had tried, one day, but she was self-conscious about her voice. Instead, she hummed and had invented a few dance move that showed off her grace and made Joly laugh with delight.

It was not easy, getting out of the mind set that one was sick. Even if, in the back of his head, Joly knew that he had hypochondria and tended to exaggerate physical reactions into symptoms, he was still overwhelmed by the impressions he had. He had no control over them when they surged, and it always took him some time to gain back that control. He thought he must have looked a little ridiculous, humming “Ode to Joy” to himself in such situations, but he wasn’t afraid of being a little odd if it meant feeling at peace again. Joly aimed to be positive and optimistic, as much as he could to chase the doubts and the dark certitudes away. He wanted to soak himself into Beethoven’s symphony and make it his theme. He couldn’t afford to be anything less than joyous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the 9th of Beethoven, Movement IV.


	23. Kingdom of Welcome Addiction (All)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis all have their personal addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Talk about obsessive behaviors

They all had their big addiction, the pulse that made them want to live just a tad harder.

For Enjolras, it was the sentiment of triumph he got after each little victory. Whether it was convincing a bigoted person of the errors of their ways, the community centre getting a gender neutral restroom, or sexual education becoming mandatory in schools, he felt a rush of intense felicity. He heard the call for justice, and considered it his work to assure the progress of society, its baby steps in what he was sure was the right direction. He was ready to be a soldier, a fighter or an orator for the good of the cause, for the good of each sub-cause. He gave himself completely and ardently, to the point of neglecting his personal life sometimes.

Combeferre loved the sentiment of camaraderie and brotherhood that stemmed from common goals and perseverance. He was in search of peace, and had the ambition of a world in which each being could count on the other. He knew that it was most likely disconnected from reality, but he felt that he couldn’t be blamed for trying. He observed ants and envied their solidarity. Introverted and socially anxious, he still sook the warmth of a united group that could keep his faith in human nature alight. For that reason, he tried to not remain alone for too long and to be of as much help as he could to as much people as possible. It exhausted him, but it was what he deemed important to do in life. Each grateful smile was an accomplishment.

As for Courfeyrac, he was addicted to being in the centre of a crowd. It did not matter if he was not the centre of the attention, as long as he could feel waves of people moving around him. The buzz of the intertwining conversations, the chants of an organized protest, the sound of the steps on the sidewalk... he liked it all. He liked people. Their air, the expression on their faces when they laughed, when they gaped, or in the surge of passion. He figured he wanted to be the cause of pretty, hearth-warming smiles. He wanted to live in harmony among his peers and get along with as many people he could handle.

Jehan was obsessed with words. Little everyday words, long literary words, descriptive words, words from languages he didn’t know, and banal ones from his own too. He loved to read them, to write them, to see them being assembled. He read Yeats, Hugo and Baudelaire, just as much as he liked Poe, Lovecraft and Beauvoir. He listened to slam poetry, to rap and country songs; he showed up to meetings with his group of friends so he could drink the words from Enjolras’ mouth. He concentrated on their meaning, their etymology, their taste. He associated them with hundreds of different colours and images. He couldn’t imagine a word that was not spoken, whether it was softly or in a big shout.

Obviously, Joly the hypochondriac was preoccupied with diseases, but his main obsession was positivism. He strove to be happy and amiable, and to spread that happiness around him. His way to beat the mental illness was to spit optimism right back in its face. He had hope of healing, of being the source of others’ healing too. If he was condemned to anxiety and, in his opinion, a short life, the least he could do was to have a meaningful and loving one.

Bossuet’s fixation was friendship. He had that in common with Grantaire and Feuilly, that he couldn’t do without a friend. He needed to be friendly, and he sook a friendly hand in return. Since he was not a very lucky man in general, having people around him to remind him that at least he was appreciated and well-liked made him feel blessed anyway. He was inseparable from both his lovers, Joly and Musichetta, whom he put at the centre of his life like a treasure he intended to keep and protect for a long, long time.

The brave Bahorel took delight in fights and confrontations. It was not that he sook to provoke and spread chaos, but he liked to lend his arms to a cause and to feel empowering to those who needed him. He had the knack for finding people to defend and for putting himself in situations in which talking would not be particularly useful. Bahorel would train everyday to get stronger. He wanted to be the pillar of something; he thrived on being the man people relied on, a shield.

Feuilly, much like Combeferre, liked unions and fraternity. He was more focussed on the cultures and the background of the people he met, though. He tried to learn more about them, to become a little less ignorant each passing day. He worked very hard to maintain a decent life, and even harder to push himself towards erudition. At all time, Feuilly _had_ to do something, whether it be practising his artistic abilities, reading or partaking in activities with different groups of people.

Grantaire was entranced by Enjolras’ fervour, his enthusiasm and his beliefs. His love for Enjolras almost didn’t top his need of Enjolras. He found in the blonde that quality that was lacking in himself: the strength of a conviction. Plunged into doubt everyday and every night, Grantaire found that when he stared at Enjolras, when he listened to him, he lived a little better. He forced himself to deny this fact, to disagree with everything Enjolras ever said, but secretly, he was waiting to be convinced. He thought that there was no way Enjolras couldn’t end up winning him over.

Marius relished in gentleness. People had not always been nice to the poor man, and so he fell for the few good souls that had the decency to offer him a smile, a compliment or an honest praise. He became loyal to who seemed just and gentle to him and to the world. He still preferred the truth to pure flattery, but he could not resist feeling tenderness to the welcoming arms of a friendly personage. This love of gentleness had pushed him into being a good man himself, albeit sometimes clumsy and misguided in his acts of charity.

Éponine was passionately, and perhaps a little selfishly dedicated to her quest of happiness. She loved Marius honestly, however he was but an ingredient in the life she wanted to know. The life she wanted to own. Éponine sook freedom and independence. She wanted to tear herself away from any subordination and find, at last, some peace. She desired to step away from her days of loneliness. She thought that she deserved a little part of paradise, and she was not afraid to get hurt or to die in the process of finally getting it.

Cosette drew her strength and her will from the beauty she found in life. She got attached to what had a reassuring existence, whether it be pretty lacy dresses, the smile on her father’s face, the act of giving to someone less fortunate than self, or the feeling of being in love. There were a few things that were unambiguously good, and Cosette looked out for them fiercely. She wanted to create some as well, to fill the world with handsome little charms. She couldn’t bear too much sadness, and what better ointment to apply to the salty burn of sadness than marvellous beautiful things.

Musichetta rejoiced in physical touches. She had two best friends, two lovers who meant the world to her. She could not pass a day without touching them, showering them in hugs, snuggles and kisses. She enjoyed showing all the love she felt for them through being extremely tactile and affectionate. A little attention here, a sweet little murmur there, she was joyful when she could be close to those who made her life full. She also adored sex, which she did not equate with love, but used as a tool and as a proof that she was indeed loved and loving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the song of the same name by IAMX


	24. For Whom the Horn Honk (Enjolras)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel teaches Enjolras how to drive!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Contains a few vulgarities  
> -Humorous (I think?)

Enjolras was the kind of person who took the bus and the metro instead of owning a car. He liked to say it was because he cared for the environment —which was true— and that there was no use having a car in a city when there were rarely ever a free parking spot —which was also true— but he had another reason for avoiding driving: he simply distrusted himself behind a wheel. Had he been living in a small town, perhaps he would had felt a little more confident. Yet, memorizing all of road signals, what did what in a car, and where to look at at what time terrorized him. Nevertheless, on his twenty-first birthday, he decided that he had enough to be scared and that a driver license might be useful in the future.

Passing the theoretical tests was fairly easy. He spent a few days reading the manuals and learning what he ought to know once he’d be thrown on the road. Enjolras had never been a genius, but he was a good and hard-working student who had never failed a class. It was the same principle here, so he passed. It got a little more complicated when came the time to practice with a real car. He couldn’t do it on his own, so he had the choice between taking driving lessons or asking a friend. Since his schedule was tight and that he wanted to economise, he decided to tell his friends about his upcoming test.

Only three of his friends had a car of their own: Bahorel, Bossuet and Grantaire. Grantaire’s car was, in his own words, “a piece of rusty shit who could fall apart at any time”. He rarely used it and actually intended to replace it as soon as possible. He was apologetic when Enjolras looked at him insistently. Bossuet couldn’t teach Enjolras, because although he had a car, it was used mostly by Joly and Musichetta at different times of the day for their work. On top of that, Bossuet was not a really good driver himself. Joly proposed to make time for Enjolras, but Bahorel said that he was perfectly available.

Of all the people he could get to teach him how to drive, Bahorel ought to be the best and the worst choice all at once. Bahorel was subject to mood swings when he was in a car.

“Nice turn, Jojo!” he said smoothly. He was grinning and seemed completely relaxed. “You did not forget to put your signal, which is one of the most important things to remember because other folks will hate your ass if you don’t. Now, put it on again and change lines.”

Enjolras look in the rear mirrors, put on his turn signal and prepared to turn. That’s when the car that was in the other lane decided to accelerate and to pass them. Bahorel rapidly stretched his hand and turned the wheel so they wouldn’t collide with the other car. He then punched the horn and honked.

“You FUCKING CUM-DRIPPING PRICK!” Bahorel belted out, his face wrinkled by anger. “OLD FUCKING HAG! WHERE DID YO GET YOU DRIVER LICENSE, IN A HAPPY MEAL? WERE YOU BORN AN ASSHOLE, OR WERE YOU RAISED THAT WAY, YOU MOTHERFUCKING ROAD HOG!”

Enjolras stiffened next to Bahorel. His cheeks were red and he was sweating heavily. He thought, for a second, that he was having a heart attack, not only for the near accident, but also because of his friend’s outburst.

“Bahorel,” he said shakily, “I really doubt that they can hear you.”

“No matter, little Jolras,” Bahorel said amiably. His calm had returned as suddenly as it had left. “It is important to evacuate your stress, or else you’ll just accumulate it and the next time you drive, you might do something you will regret.”

“Did you ever do something regrettable?” Enjolras asked . He stopped at a red light.

“Oh, many times, boop. I once stop in the middle of the road and refused to keep driving because I was so enraged. Someone called the cops on me and I got a contravention. I also nearly hit a tree the third time I drove. I was so distracted and I was focussing too much on the people driving behind me. These days are all gone, now. I’m the epitome of zen.”

“Are you now,” Enjolras stated, deadpan. He lift his foot from the breaks when the light turned green. At last, he was able to change line.

“I sure am, as you probably noticed,” Bahorel said, ignoring the sarcasm. “That was a very good change of line. Now, you are going to make your stop and turn on your right.”

“Isn’t that... that’s a McDonald, Bahorel.”

“Learning to use a restaurant’s drive-in is part of the process, Angel. Plus, each time something stupid happens to you, you’ll need a small comfort. Here’s a small comfort: I’m buying you lunch. Actually, Feuilly is buying you lunch. He owes me from last poker night and he’s on his shift right now.”

Enjolras snickered and turned right towards the drive-in of the McDonald.

“Did you learn Feuilly’s schedule by heart?” he inquired. He laughed when Bahorel casually nodded.

“What? I can’t eat that unless Feuilly’s the one serving me. I’m a creature of habit.”

“ _Can I take your order?_ ” said Feuilly’s voice on the intercom. It sighed when Bahorel answered:

“My usual, plus a... what do you want, Jojo? Jojo wants a salad, a diet pepsi and a big size of french fries. Thanks Feuilly. I’ll see you where you’ll pay for all that!”

Enjolras couldn’t help but smile and laugh with his friend. He could have picked a worst teacher, all things consider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the book "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Hemingway.


	25. It's the End of the World as we know it! (Bahorel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis are on a road trip. In Bahorel's van, people are starting to get cranky. To lighten the mood, Bahorel sings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bickering and singing!

It was the end of Summer, and the members of the political group Les Amis decided to go to Quebec City to treat themselves before starting what would be for some of them the last year of university. There were the nine of them plus four —Courfeyrac had invited Marius who had then invited Cosette and Éponine, which had prompted Bossuet and Joly to invite Musichetta. This means they were thirteen people crammed into two rented vans who had to be on the road together for over three hours at a temperature of thirty Celsius. Bahorel was one of the designated drivers, and he was starting to regret it.

The more time he spent in a small space with his friends, the more he was starting to think that they were all a bunch of big babies. He had Feuilly right next to him who won the passenger seat because his arm was still in a cast after having broken it at work; behind them, Enjolras was siting next to Marius, the both of them looking uncomfortable and trying not to touch; and in the back, Éponine, Bossuet and Grantaire were arguing loudly with each other. The thing was, everybody was assigned place so there would not be any quarrel or people feeling like a third wheel. The results were atrocious: Joly, the other driver, had gotten all the calm, amiable people of their group, and Bahorel had gotten the whiners.

Grantaire was kicking in Enjolras’ seat to enrage the blonde. The latter was trying to keep his calm, but became snappy to Marius who was trying to make conversation. This made Éponine angry and snappy as well, while Marius attempted, badly, to control the situation. Bossuet spilt his bottle of water twice in the van and made Bahorel stop at a petrol station to go take a piss. People were sweating, stinking and ranting about the littlest things. That was half an hour after their departure! Bahorel remained silent for a while, but he didn’t know for how long he could endure the bickering and the overall negativity that was poisoning the air. He stole glances at Feuilly from time to time, but the man was staring out the window with a sulky face, not helping at all.

The problem, it seemed, was that all the little subgroups were broken. Without Joly or Musichetta, Bossuet became nervous and more accident-prone. Without Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Enjolras was blunter and more snappish. Without Cosette, Marius was an awkward mess, and Éponine was bound to be protective and aggressive. As for Grantaire, he would act like an asshole whomever was in the van, but at least, had he been the driver or sat beside Jehan or Feuilly, he’d have something to concentrate on.

“All I’m saying,” Éponine declared, “Is that it’s not Marius or mine’s fault that Grantaire’s being a jerk. So calm your nerves and stop being a dickhead yourself, white boy.”

“I was perfectly polite when I told Marius that I wasn’t interested in talking about Cosette for all of three hours to Quebec!”

“What, do you think that what you say is always interesting?” Éponine mocked, “What would you prefer to talk about? Another of your inane little projects?”

“Marius’ amours interest me grandly,” Grantaire quipped, “Much more, anyway, than hearing about things that are bound to fail. It is so depressing to see you put so much ardour into politics when we’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect much more from you, since your mind is eternally vacant.”

That warranted another kick into Enjolras’ seat, and the blonde turned over and tried to swat at Grantaire in spite of the restraining seat belt. Éponine and Bossuet snickered and Marius sighed audibly.

“I’m so sorry, it is just that Cosette is the one topic I’m still certain about since I met you guys. Never felt something so solid and sure in my whole life!”

There were groans. Grantaire laughed. “Alas, poor friend, is there ever a subject less certain than love? Of course the abject sentiment is a liar, so it’ll make you believe anything: that it is strong, that it is conquering, that it is lasting—”

“Love can be all of those things!” Enjolras and Marius exclaimed at the same time. There was an awkward silence, then Enjolras pursued. “Love is what... it’s the drive to get better. It makes a person do things selflessly for something higher than the self.” Marius hummed, but Bahorel could hear Grantaire twitch and squirm.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought you were a romantic, Enjolras. Seems like I underestimated your naivety.”

“And his tenderness for you,” grumbled Éponine. There was another awkward silence, but neither Grantaire or Enjolras protested, though they were probably thinking to try. Marius kind of gasped. Bossuet cleared his throat. Feuilly remained silent. Bahorel had had enough.

“Is it really the fucking end of the world that you have to spend and enjoy three hours in each other’s company?” he barked.

“What do you mean?” Marius asked.

“You are all acting like a bunch of fucking poopy, preppy, smelly kids who will whine and whine, and whine again because things don’t go as plan. Come on guys, we’re supposed to be all friends and you all sound like you’d rather be working or some shit. Can someone say something nice that won’t start a fight?” Everybody remained silent. Bahorel scowled. “Well, then it’s shut your cakehole time. I’m putting on the radio.”

He practically punched the play button of his CD player and raised up the volume. He laughed as the first notes of the music started to play and, surprisingly, he heard Feuilly snort too. So he hadn’t fallen asleep. It was the song “It’s the End of the World as We know it” by R.E.M. Bahorel thought it was kinda fitting. Grantaire started tapping on the window in rhythm with the song. Éponine hummed. Bossuet cawed some lyrics, but he choked and Grantaire had to slap him in the back.

“Y’alright, back there, Bossuet?”

“F-f-fine,” Bossuet managed to say, clearing his throat. “I think I choked on my own saliva. Who does that? Me, that’s who.”

“That’s the universe telling you that you’re a bad singer, Boss,” Bahorel said.

“Like you are any better.”

“I can actually sing very fast: _Save yourself, serve yourself, world serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed dummy with the rapture, and the revered, and the right, right! You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched!_ ”

And with that, Feuilly straightened up and belted “It’s the end of the world as we know it!” Bahorel laughed as everyone followed through. _It’s the end of the world as we know it, it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine_!

Even Enjolras was singing along, although he did not seem to know the song by heart. Grantaire stopped kicking his seat, and Marius Éponine and Bossuet had a smile to their voice. Feuilly was at last paying attention to them. Maybe, just maybe the rest of the ride would go fine.

  
*******   


 

“How was your journey, friends?” Jehan asked when they reached the motel. Bahorel stared at him, bulged his eyes and murmured:

“The horror, the horror...”

Jehan burst into laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the song of the same name by R.E.M.


	26. Breakfast on Pluto (Musichetta)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musichetta and the changes that were necessary to her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning
> 
> -Dysphoria.  
> -Mention of bullying.
> 
> -Contains Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta towards the end.

Her birth name was Blanco, which meant white in Spanish, and she had the vague impression that her parents had named her ironically. Her skin was darker than theirs, like her grandmother’s skin, her hair was black and her eyes were a deep shade of brown. There was nothing pale about her. Yet, she decided to go along with her family’s bad humour by renaming herself Bianca, which also meant white, but in Italian. The colour didn’t hold any significance for her, but she’d been told that it reflected her personality somehow. Nevertheless, most people preferred to call her by her surname, since they apparently couldn’t get used to the new chosen name. Fortunately, Musichetta had a nice, feminine ring to it anyway.

The first dress she put on, at the age of fifteen, was also white with a long black ribbon at the waist. At that time, she did not look like a woman, or at least, not in society’s eyes. Not in her own eyes. She spent her mornings shaving her whole body and trying to do her hair —which were not long enough to her taste. Once, she sneaked into her sister’s room to pick clothes that would suit her. When nothing would fit, Musichetta locked herself into her room, sank her face in her pillow and cried bitterly. She was proud of being tall and curvy, but each time she looked into the mirror, her assigned gender was there to taunt her, like a skintight outfit that she couldn’t get rid of. Still, she could not look away. Her mind buzzed with ideas to render herself more woman-like, to model herself the way she wanted to be. She got headaches and lost her appetite, for all her trouble. One good day, though, her father knocked at her door. When she opened it, she saw that he was holding that cute white dress. He had bought it for her in a plus size boutique, and he admitted that he knew that she “wanted to be a girl”. She did not correct him, moved to the point of crying. She kissed her father on the cheek, put on the dress and did not remove it for two whole days.

Her mother and siblings took more time to understand, but Mr Musichetta bought her little accessories, feminine clothes and even her own make up. He said that it was important to be comfortable with one’s body, and that it made him sad to see his “son” getting depressed while looking at his sister with envy. Musichetta was grateful, as the little things helped, but she would have liked to be completely recognized as a woman. When she told it to her father, he answered that she should perhaps hit him each time he referred to her as a man. She laughed gayly.

It was harder at school. Her friends, most of them being boys, appeared to be extremely uncomfortable and refused to use feminine pronouns when talking about her. One after the other, they ceased talking to Musichetta. She was an extrovert, so she took it really hard and, for a moment, thought about giving up on that part of her identity. However, one look into a mirror, and she knew she could never go back. She could barely stand it when she didn’t have make up on. Her prominent features seemed to be grimacing at her and it was still a stranger behind the mask. In fact, the mask felt realer than her own skin.

Her choice to remain loyal to herself made her life difficult until she was out of highschool. Once, she even had to defend herself physically, because some guy wouldn’t stop trying to grope her, yelling that she was just a pathetic she-male. She punched him in the face and managed to broke his nose. She was the one who got suspended for a week. She returned home, shaking with anger, and installed herself in front of her mirror. For half an hour, she repeated under her breath that she was not a “she-male”, a male, or anything they were calling her. She did it until tears streamed down her cheeks, and stopped when her sister came in her room and embraced her from behind. She wasn’t actually sad. She was enraged, and more assured than ever that she was who she said she was.

Her experience in her Cégep was less rough. People were more accepting, or at least, they knew how to avoid the subject. Musichetta even made a few friends who called her “she” and “Bianca” with respect. They admired her stature, went shopping with her and talked about men excitedly without being uncomfortable. At last, Musichetta felt that she was fitting in.

When she reached the age of nineteen, Musichetta decided that it was time to ask for hormones, the pills that would make her look more like the woman she was. She also found a steady job in a book store, and started economizing for plastic surgery. She got little support from her mother who just sighed and asked why she would mutilate herself to resemble a gender that hadn’t achieved equality yet. Her brothers had the same opinion. Musichetta’s father was ambivalent about the operation, but he said that if she needed it, he would help her gather the money. Surprisingly, her sister agreed to do the same.

“I always wanted a sister,” Lucinda told her. She was smiling shyly, her gaze unsure, but definitely loving. Musichetta held her in her arms and thanked her.

She got her operation to get breast implants only at twenty-five. It was the scariest thing she’d ever done, but it was worth it. Back home, she looked at herself in the mirror and her smile was so big it hurt. She even let her sister touch her breasts. The latter feigned indignation because hers were not as big, which made Musichetta laugh and joke about being greedy, since nature had not given her any to begin with. Her mother and brothers were weirded out, but they still congratulated her and hugged her.

“What about your prick, though?” one of her brother asked. He was promptly swatted by their mother, but Musichetta only shrugged.

“I still like it. I’m not ready to get rid of it yet. Besides, that would be a shame to cut off the biggest dick of the family, wouldn’t it?”

Her brother scoffed at her, but her mother laughed. Her sister frowned.

“How are you ever going to get a boyfriend with a penis, though?” she asked abruptly, making Musichetta roll her eyes.

Musichetta had had a few flings, but nothing serious. The minute the guy knew that she was a trans woman, he preferred to be just friend or ran the other way. Some of them did not seem to mind, but it did not work anyway. Apparently, her strength and confidence scared them away. Musichetta remained single, and she was starting to worry a little about it, but in the end, she thought that crushing the remnants of dysphoria was more important than having a relationship. Surely, that would happen naturally. And it did.

A few months later, Musichetta met Didier Lesgle. He called himself Bossuet, for some reason, and he was extremely clumsy. He spilled his coffee on her white dress. Confounded and apologetic, he wouldn’t stop telling her how sorry he was and that he was going to buy her another dress if only she would give him a price. Musichetta gave him her number instead and he called her back in the evening.

Bossuet was a handsome fellow with a smooth dark skin and no hair. He was gentle and nice, and when Musichetta told him that she was a trans woman —she always told before things got serious so she could judge a man’s character— he exclaimed that she was a beautiful person and that he hoped that she felt at ease with the way things were. When she said that indeed she was happy, he told her that her happiness had to be one of the most important things on the planet in his eyes. She chuckled at his attempt to be romantic. That’s when he admitted that he was already taken.

Apparently, Bossuet and his lover, Jean-Luc Joly, were usually inseparable. Joly was a medical student, Bossuet was a college drop-out who worked as a cook. They lived together, ate together, watched movies together... but sometimes, they hung out with other people, engaged in romantic stuff with others and had sex with others. That’s how it worked for them. Bossuet said that he was sorry to have led her on. Musichetta was more intrigued than sorry.

“Aren’t you guys the least bit jealous?” she asked.

“Not really. We trust each other and we figured that we were not that attached to the concept of monogamy together. As long as we can spend time together, and live together, we’re fine.”

“What happened to all of the people that you were seeing?”

“Most of them can’t handle the relationship for very long...” Bossuet trailed off. There was a bit of disappointment in his voice.

“I bet I could,” Musichetta blurted out. It was out of the blue and she almost regretted it, but then Bossuet laughed at her and told her that she hadn’t even met Joly yet. “Well then, when do I meet him?” she demanded cheekily. Bossuet laughed again. It was a earthy laugh, a good, pleasant laugh. Musichetta loved it.

As it turned out, Jean-Luc Joly was an adorable human being. He was joyful and very expressive. He practically gawked at her when Bossuet brought her to his and Joly’s favourite bistro for breakfast. She smiled and winked at him, and his face turned a nice shade of pink. He stood up to shake her hand. His was soft and short. He had cute dimples at the corners of his mouth. He was much shorter than Bossuet and her, but didn’t look at all intimidated. Personality-wise, he never ran out of amusing things to say and he seemed very knowledgeable. Musichetta fell in love with the way that he and Bossuet looked at each other. She thought that it would be great if one, or the both of them could look at her this way one day.

Musichetta had never thought about the prospect of sharing someone in a relationship. Her parents had always been more of the ‘traditional’ monogamous marriage type and were fiercely attached to one another. When she thought about it now, it didn’t seem so bad an idea. When she saw their welcoming eyes, their welcoming smiles directed at her, she thought it had to be a _good_ one.

A few weeks later, she was in a relationship of a sort with both of the men. Bossuet took long walks with her and brought her little pastries, and Joly stopped by the book store where she worked to read to her and talk about his classes. She went at their place to sleep, danced and sang in the morning to wake them up, making them laugh. The three of them slept in the same queen size bed. It was such a gratifying feeling to wake up in the arms of someone else.

One night, Joly had a panic attack because he thought he couldn’t breath. He wanted to call the doctor, and Musichetta jumped out of bed to get the phone, but Bossuet caught her hand and shook his head. He proceeded to murmur things in Joly’s ear. He eventually calmed down, thanked his lover and went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. That is when Musichetta learned about Joly’s hypochondria. Joly looked a little sheepish. She didn’t know if he was ashamed or anything, so she assured him that she was going to read on the subject matter and that it didn’t bother her. Joly looked a little sceptical, but he smiled and nodded.

They became closer after that particular instance. Bossuet’s gaze became a little softer when he looked at Musichetta. Joly started joking about his illness instead of never talking about it. The trust was slowly, but surely installing itself in the relationship. Sure, Bossuet kept making gaffes, and dealing with Joly’s hypochondria was often hard and tiring, but the care they felt for each other made up for it. After a few months, Musichetta realized that she was in love. The realization didn’t hit her as hard as the next, though: she was happy. She was undeniably happy. Not only did she have a job, two lovers and friends, but she had been feeling like herself for a while, now. Even before she met her two men, she was happy and confident, so much so that she entered a new kind of relationship with the certitude that it would be good for her.

“What are you smiling about?” Bossuet inquired.

“Nothing! You’re cute, I’m cute, Joly’s cute, and that makes me happy. Our trip of cuteness. Sorry, I probably don’t make sense.”

“Nonsense!” Joly exclaimed. “We are so adorable together; I say, never truer words have been spoken.”

Musichetta and Bossuet snorted and smiled at each other.

It was the beginning of a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the book of the same name by Patrick McCabe. There's also a movie staring Cillian Murphy.


	27. Less than Zero (Jehan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan wakes up and inspect himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning
> 
> -Mention of Bipolarity.  
> -Depression.  
> -Sort of ideation of melancholia and death.

The headache woke him up.

According to his phone, it was four in the morning and Jehan did not where he was. He was lying in a bed naked, feeling dizzy. His chest hurt a little. There was an arm firmly wrapped around his waist. His last one night was a cuddler. Jehan turned his head to the right to get a look at the lucky man. He was a bit chubby, had olive skin and wild curly brown hair. Just as expected, he looked a bit like Courfeyrac. The last few people he’d slept with all looked a bit like Courfeyrac. He had the knack to spot lovers who fit his ideal type in a crowd. It probably didn’t mean much. He also had had a string of lovers in the past who resembled Combeferre trait for trait, and even one who had similarities with Enjolras, though the gorgeous blonde was hard to top in terms of beauty.

His head singing about pain, Jehan took the arm of the man lying next to him and pushed it away. He tried to get out of bed without waking him up, but he was not in a mood to care. He felt morose. It was going to be a grey day, as he liked to call them. All tern, misty and heavy. He actually enjoyed those days, once in a while. They gave him much to write about when he was in one of his manic phases. If he was to be frank, Jehan thought that melancholia and the life of the bum were much more attractive than the prospect of constant happiness. He loved to live through all possible emotions, to experiment with them. This is why he stopped taking his medication. They often left him in a neutral mood that was practically unbearable for him. He needed passion, whether he found it in anger, sadness or euphoria. Still, it didn’t mean he liked to endure physical pain at all times, so he searched for the bathroom in the apartment to borrow some aspirin.

The moment Jehan found the small and mucky bathroom, his stomach started to valse and he plunged toward the toilet to throw up profusely. Bits of vomit got stuck in his long ginger hair. He smelled of alcohol and sex. He felt better, but he still rummaged through the guy’s cabinet and took two pills. He intended to leave the apartment right after, but he caught his image in the mirror and saw that there was a picture of a black withered flower on his reddened chest, right where his heart would be. So that was what he’d been doing, the day before. Flashes of himself walking through a tattoo parlour came back to his mind. He chatted with the artist there, asked for a black, death chrysanthemum, and paid cash. He was not under the influence of alcohol or something stronger at that time, but he suspected that the decision had been as rushed and out of the blue as if he’d been.

Each time Jehan felt itchy with the urge to just _do_ something, he had to get a tattoo. He didn’t put much thought into what he wanted to get at first: he much preferred to decipher the meaning of the images after they were printed on his body. It was more interesting that way. He already had a red octopus on the shoulder, a bluebell on his wrist right above a few white scars, and a green skull crowned with pink roses on one of his shoulder blades. The chrysanthemum was interesting in that it was the only tattoo that was black. It was fitting, since it was on his chest. It looked as though his heart made the flower ill with his beating and made her die. He liked it.

  
Jehan took a quick shower to wash his hair and the night away. He took it cold, enough to make him shiver under the stream of water. His showers always had to be too cold or too hot. He didn’t like anything that was lukewarm. Besides, the pain had a certain appeal, especially with cold water. Once, he took a bath full of ice just to see for how long his body could take it. His friend Joly had warned him against hypothermia, but that only made him think about what his skin would look like with frostbite. What it would look like if it turned blue.

When he got out of the shower, trembling, Jehan went back to the mirror and inspected himself again. He looked like a pale corpse, all body and gangly with bags under his eyes that looked like permanent marks, a bit like his tattoos. He sniffed, and his eyes went back to the Chrysanthemum. He wondered what he was thinking when he got it. He never remembered, because getting drunk and high right afterwards was always part of the process. He got a tattoo in the afternoon, went to eat at one of his friends’ home, and then left for a crazy night of drugs, drinking and sex. He didn’t know what was the connection, but he liked that routine, because it didn’t feel like a routine at all. Probably because he could only imagine what he had done these nights.

Perhaps he was feeling particularly down when he asked for the dead flower. Lonely, maybe. Or perhaps the image just popped into his brain and he thought it pretty enough to keep it forever. The tattoo sure was beautiful. Coldly so, in a “the world has his share of despair” way. Jehan started to daydream about how such a dark flower could grow out of a human body. His blood, frozen by years of bouts of depression flowing through it, would be the perfect fertilizer. His heart could be a pot or a vase, since it often felt hollow. The salty, cold tears that streamed from his eyes for no reason from time to time would hydrate the plant. It would grow around his rib cage, pierce his chest, pass through his skin and bleed dark, unconsolable ink.

Chrysanthemum. The flower of grief and death. It was fitting.

Jehan went to the bedroom, planted himself next to his one night stand, and slapped him on the rear. The guy startled and moaned. He slowly turned his head towards Jehan, eying him with stupefaction and sleepy anger. Jehan grinned.

“How do I look? Dead, don’t I?”

“Yeah...” the man slurred.

“Like I could feed the worms and the flowers?”

The guy took a second to stare at him. He was wet, white as a ghost, looked pretty tired and his eyes were tainted by the grey of the day to come. He certainly hoped that the guy wouldn’t take pity on him and lied by saying that he was beautiful and glowing.

“You look like a walking cadaver, man,” the guy spat. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and come back to bed?”

Jehan shook his head. He picked up his clothes, dressed up, and left, satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the book of the same name by Bret Easton Ellis.


	28. Heart of Darkness (Enjolras)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras inquires about Grantaire's tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Contains E/R

Curiosity had always been a characteristic, sometimes a flaw, of Enjolras. It was not always apparent, because he knew how to contain it and to seem only politely interested, but the itch to learn about everything was always present. This is why he knew a lot of details about his friends’ life, whether it be about Courfeyrac’s night routine, Combeferre’s sweet little nicknames for the insects he kept in his room, the number of plants Jehan had, or Feuilly’s brand of shampoo. When he wanted to have a particular piece of information, the idea wouldn’t leave his mind until he found a way to ask, subtly or not.

Right now, Enjolras wanted to ask about Grantaire’s tattoo sleeve. He had never noticed that the man had it before, because he kept wearing long-sleeved shirts and hoodies. However, during a hot day of Summer, Grantaire walked in the Musain in a green T-shirt. It was a rare sight and it immediately caught Enjolras’ attention. Then, his eyes trailed on Grantaire’s right arm, where a grape vine turned and turned around several human hearts. During the whole evening, Enjolras kept stealing glances toward the tattoo and even stuttered a few times while he spoke to Combeferre about his latest project. Once, Grantaire caught him looking and sort of smirked and frowned at the same time, as though he was surprised, but couldn’t help being mocking. He was as infuriating as ever.

Grantaire was not the only member of their group of friends to have tattoos: Bahorel had almost his whole back covered by a dragon, and Jehan had a multitudes of smaller tattoos scattered on his body. The first bragged to everyone who wanted to hear that he’d always been a fan of dragons, and that he was born a dragon according to the Chinese Zodiac. The latter scolded Enjolras when he tried to talk about it in public. Apparently, for some people, tattoos were a private matter. Enjolras apologized, and had to wait months before Jehan deigned to explain to him the meaning behind just one of his tattoos. Since Grantaire had never talked of his own will about his body art, Enjolras knew better than to ask in front of the others.

After everyone parted, Enjolras called out Grantaire and asked if he could walk him home. The man flustered and acquiesced, but the bemused expression did not leave his face before Enjolras started a conversation. He talked about how he was writing an article to denounce the fact that Jehan had been fired from his job for not respecting the dress code, when in fact, they most certainly discriminated against him for wearing a skirt and having long hair. Grantaire snorted, but for once, he said nothing. He just threw a nervous glance in Enjolras’ direction and kept walking.

Enjolras was not really oblivious to the fact that Grantaire liked him more than one likes a friend. In fact, it was rather obvious. All the teasing, the staring, the monologues about Enjolras’ “misguided idealism” that were nothing if not gently uttered... The man even asked him if he had the permission to doodle him, once or twice. Enjolras said yes, but he never saw the drawings in question. He concluded that Grantaire was shy, which was bizarre, since shyness had never seemed to be part of Grantaire’s personality. Sometimes, he even looked like he was scared to talk to Enjolras face to face. Because of this, Enjolras did not know much about the man, which is part of why he was reticent to openly reciprocate or reject his affection.

They arrived at Grantaire’s place, and Enjolras asked if he could come in to drink some water. He disliked lying, but he knew that Grantaire wasn’t going to invite him inside if he did not take the initiative, and frankly, he had not found the way to ask about the tattoo yet. Grantaire seemed to hesitate, but he eventually said yes. The place was extraordinarily messy, but still managed to look bland, as though Grantaire did not like to spend time here, or to make it look like a home. The walls were white, there was little to no decoration, and there was few furniture. It was almost depressing to look at, especially when one knew that Grantaire liked art.

While Grantaire went to get him a glass of water, Enjolras sat on the small sofa in the livingroom. Grantaire came back, gave him his water and just stood there awkwardly. He made no move to sit: he just stared at Enjolras anxiously, like he was afraid that he wasn’t going to enjoy the water. Enjolras rolled his eyes and tapped the seat next to him. Grantaire obeyed the gesture, but as soon as he was installed at Enjolras’ side, he seemed to shrink on himself, all stiff. To avoid embarrassing him, Enjolras did not make any allusion to his anguish. He decided to go straight to the point.

“Actually, I came here because my interest is piqued.”

“Your interest? Towards what?” Grantaire asked, averting his eyes.

“I would like to know what is the signification behind those,” Enjolras answered, eying Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire followed his gaze. There was a pause, during which Grantaire caressed the bigger heart on his biceps. It was the only one that was full and fully coloured. The others all had a missing part, were much smaller and blacker. The one nearer Grantaire’s hand looked cancer-ridden, and it was strangled by the grape vines. It seemed a little morbid.

“You came all the way here just to ask me that?” Grantaire finally let out. He didn’t sound disappointed, only perplexed. Enjolras shrugged.

“I thought perhaps it was a private matter for you. Something you wouldn’t wish to speak of in front of the other.”

“Okay? But was it so important for you to know?”

Enjolras laughed, embarrassed and shook his head, but his eyes returned to the choking heart on Grantaire’s wrist. He wet his lips and deposed his glass of water on the table before him. Then he put his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Can I?” he asked. When Grantaire nodded, he placed the man’s arm in his lap to inspect the tattoos. Enjolras was no expert, but he would say that the tattoo had been done a while ago. The drawings were finely traced and filled. It didn’t look like something Grantaire would get just for fun. “They must mean something. I’d say they have a sad meaning,” he pondered.

“You are not wrong,” Grantaire said. “I bet you think that this represents heartbreak?”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No, Enjolras, though my heart has been pissed on a few times. No, this is what someone like me feels like when arrives the night, the reason behind my attachment to alcohol, the cause of my rants opposing yours, the obligation for me to take some pills and the result of a long life of being good for nothing. It’s an _ennui_ , a vain melancholia, see? I found it lying inside myself and I decided to tear it away from my guts and brain, to stamp it on my skin. It’s the mark of the sleepless, the seal of the reckless romantic, the fate of the cowardly bum. It is, I believe, how I perceive the harassing hurt that clouds my mind when I hear you talk about positive activism and the world of tomorrow. Don’t worry, though. There is a few grapes in the mix, which taste delicious, especially in the form of wine. The wine nourish the hearts and keep them alive. You are wine, Enjolras.”

He ended his speech with a cough and removes his arm from Enjolras’ lap. Enjolras stared at Grantaire, his mouth hanging open and his brow creased. He hadn’t understand everything, but he thought he ought to feel flattered that he was part made Grantaire happy. When he said so, Grantaire laughed.

“You don’t simply make me happy. You redeem life,” Grantaire breathed out. “I thought about you when I asked for the grape vine too, you know?”

“But it is strangling the hearts!” Enjolras exclaimed.

“Hah, don’t see it as a negative. It actually oblige my heart to beat harder, to struggle harder. To survive.”

Enjolras was unsure, but Grantaire smile reassured him. He put his hand near Grantaire’s and continue to observe the man’s tattoo, his interest renewed by the fact that he now knew its raison d’être. He had the urge to touch, but he didn’t.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said solemnly. “I feel glad that you trust me enough to share this with me. Next time I come here, I’ll tell you about mine.”

Grantaire raised his brows. “You have a tattoo? Wait. _Next time_?”

Enjolras smiled enigmatically. He did not have a tattoo yet, but Grantaire did not have to know. He leaned towards Grantaire and kissed him on the cheek. He said: “You are great. You turned the hurt and the ennui into art. It’s not vain, it’s quite a sight. I wish you’d had shared this with me sooner.”

“I thought... I thought it was a bit out of line.”

“No, tattooing my face on your belly would have been out of line,” Enjolras said, deadpan. Grantaire scoffed, but he seemed very pleased. So pleased that, in a burst of confidence, he took Enjolras’ hand in his own and squeezed it. It was as far as he dared to go.

“Did it help? With the hurt you feel, I mean?”

“What, the tattoo? Yes. It does. It’s a relief to let out one’s emotion, even if it’s not out loud. Not that simple ink could heal me...”

“Then why do you usually wear long sleeves?”

“So you would ask, I guess,” Grantaire teased.

Enjolras spent the rest of the evening thinking about what he would like to get on his body. The letter R came in mind, but Enjolras put it away in case it was a bit out of line just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the book of the same name by Joseph Conrad.


	29. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Éponine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine ponders about her relationship with Marius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk about unrequited love, and the affects of it.

Given the choice, Éponine thought that it would be healthier to erase Marius Pontmercy from her mind. Despite being the sweetest person Éponine has ever had the chance to meet, he was also a toxic friend. Marius acted like such an airhead sometimes. He was smart, almost an erudite when it came to some languages, and yet he was unable to decipher people’s feelings, people’s intentions. He had never guessed that Éponine had fallen for him days after getting introduced to him. The longing stares, the unsubtle, flirtatious tone, the red cheeks and the sudden intensive care for her hair, all of that was lost on Marius. He only ever noticed that Éponine was a rude, aggressive person, that she had a tense relationship with her family, that she was a little crossed-eyed and skinny... things that she found touching, but that had no bearing on the truth. And then Marius had to go and fall in love with Cosette Fauchelevant.

There was no hard feelings. Éponine expected some, thought about how she should have felt jealous and angry, but she only felt bitter and disappointed. Not because Cosette existed, not because she was perfect in every way for her Marius, but because Marius just had never noticed. Éponine had never been good for expressing her feelings orally. Still, she could be very obvious when she needed to. Gavroche had known she was love soon enough. Her thirteen years old little brother, cleverer than that big shallot of Pontmercy. It was simply frustrating, because she’d never know what Marius would have thought about it. About her trembling heart, her anxiously bitten lips, the heat in her loins and the overly romantic thoughts that came to her mind even though she had never cared for romance before. It was no use to confess now, because Marius’s opinion would be forever tainted by the filter of his own rosy love. He would not only get embarrassed, but he would start avoiding her, fearing for his relationship with Cosette.

So Éponine’s feelings were destined to be kept a secret, at least until she died, or until Cosette did. Whichever came first. She wasn’t willing to put Marius in a situation where he’d be so uncomfortable he would leave her behind. She was too selfish to step back, too attached to stop clinging to this sort of imbalanced friendship in which she trapped herself. If she couldn’t have Marius’s heart, she’d at least keep some of his time for herself. Nevertheless, Éponine was not naive: she knew that it wasn’t good for her. She was making herself sick with fantasies, doubts, questions and longing. She caught herself more than once wishing something would happen to throw Marius into her arms, and then she felt ashamed while looking at the bright-smiling Cosette. The girl didn’t deserve any harm. She was a strong, willful person who could lead Marius to happiness, self-acceptance, confidence... these sort of things that had been out of reach for Éponine since her adolescence.

All of the memories Éponine had of Marius were cherished and remembered with fondness, yet Éponine often wondered if they would have be better off not knowing each other. Well, in her case anyway. Marius was too oblivious a man to think about that sort of things, and if Éponine was erased from his mind, his life would probably remain the same. It was a sad thought, because Éponine liked to think she had at least a small impact on him, but it was wishful thinking. She cared more about Marius than he cared about her. She was a spec of dust into his life, that one friend-acquaintance that you are not sure how to qualified. She hated that it pained her so much. She hated that she relied so much on Marius to find a semblance of happiness. She always liked to think of herself as independent, a fierce and savage person in no need of being cuddled. She could still live without being cuddled, but she couldn’t live apart from Marius. She could sleep on a rock bed, but she needed that one warm blanket around her. She had come to fear the cold and lonely air of solitude that had been her allies before.

Marius made her feel weak. He made her too full of something that dragged her around at times with a fleeting ardour, and other times with dreadful anguish. His existence alone was half a balm, and half acid on Éponine’s life. It was almost unbearable. She wanted her mind to be blank again, she wanted the grey monotony of a poor, but self-sustained life. She wanted to be innocent and oblivious to love’s mean touches, and cupid’s gun. Yet, given the choice, healthy or no, Éponine guessed that she wouldn’t even hesitate to choose Marius over and over again. Over her own sanity. And although she hated herself for bowing in front of that neediness, something in it felt sweet, and made her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the movie of the same name, and from the poem 'Eloisa to Abelard' by Alexander Pope.


	30. Hyperbole and a Half (Joly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly's temporary solution to his problems is often laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Talk about mental illness.

Laughing was a medicine. At least, that is what Jean-Luc Joly thought. He used laughter to push against his fears, his anxiety and what set him apart from the rest. For him, there was nothing like a good (or bad!) joke to lighten the mood, to brighten the atmosphere. He would find what was absurd in a situation and poked the ridicule out of it, clumsy and inept, but with a smile “to die for”, according to his friends. He would point and gently laugh at details, especially if they concerned himself. Joly was considered one incredibly positive person by most of his acquaintances and friends. They thought nothing could get to him, that all bad would rebound off of his skin, without once piercing it. Of course, they were wrong, but Joly was happy to encourage that way of thinking.

When he was a child, Joly had always perceived himself as weak. He was short and sickly, which did not help his hypochondria at all, and he was easily moved by everything. It could be the birds chirping, or the sound of an infant crying, it was all the same: he would get teary-eyed and feel disconcerted. The slightest thing would disturb him, make him think too hard, influence his behaviour. He was a stressed, gullible kid, eager to be in the right, to know the truth, and to remain alive. As he grew older, he improved and built himself a sort of shell around himself. He was still affected by words, images and sounds, but he rarely let it show anymore. He simply laughed it out. Even if his friends’s behaviours and their jokes were not that funny half of the time, Joly laughed out loud, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open. He let out a multitude of sounds, whether it be happy giggling, heavy chuckles, or an uncontrollable bubbly laughter. He sniffed, slapped himself on the thighs, wore his smiles so large that they hurt. Aside from Bossuet and Musichetta, his lovers, no one noticed when he was uneasy. And that was for the best, or so he thought.

Still, he had his difficult moments too. One day, when Combeferre started talking with animation about a virus he just learned about in his epidemiology class, and that Grantaire jokingly said that Joly probably had it, Joly sniggered and added that he already saw a doctor twice for it. He then came home, nearly crying, and locked himself in the bathroom where he spent an hour checking his vitals and inspecting himself. He refused Bossuet and Musichetta’s sympathy and went to bed early after taking sleeping pills so that he wouldn’t think himself into a migraine.

Another day, when Enjolras harshly told Grantaire that if he couldn’t help himself, he’d have a hard time getting some help from others, Joly felt like giving up again. He found Grantaire sniffing in the restroom of the café and hugged him tightly. They were united in their depressed feeling of being misunderstood for a short moment. They thought themselves silly, but neither of them could laugh at that time. Or cry, for that matter. They could only ponder about why they had gotten so damaged, and why words were this powerful against them. They left together for a walk. Joly did not talk to Enjolras for three days after that, but he eventually came back to his old self, in need of putting everyone into a good mood instead of sulking.

Despite this kind of days happening every once in a while, Joly was certain that laughter was the remedy to feeling bummed and isolating himself. Even if it was exaggerated most of the time, even if it was not always genuine, sometimes faked and obnoxious; it helped. It really did. At least Joly hoped so with all his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the book and blog written/drawn by Allie Brosh.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also Hyela on Tumblr; come and say hi if you want to.


End file.
